New Moon

When the moon calls us,
when it gets under our skin
and behind our eyes,
all I can think of
is its bright face,
the sweet high bliss of it
screamsinging inside me,
buried somewhere
so far below
it is in the knot of me
that was tied
when I was first begun,
before there ever was a me,
when I was nothing more than howling
beneath the dark
of someone else’s new moon.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.