moon wakes landscape to memory
in the face of identity we are satellites reflecting
worms, snakes, pale tubers rising in symphony
from chthonic rood; seeing mirrors tell
upon each of us; we join hands, afraid to howl

pale and translucent, we will never bend
light from its preordained path; we dance to mark
the spot where our foot lies. words speak. hands
slap. music mounts string, brass and tambourine
we tear ourselves apart, we consume our springs
of indifference, we eat our fears, excrete summer

we know this place; it is ours to defend
we mould this place into a shape of our understanding
we invest in this place, not another, nowhere other
than here, this place; we worship because it is hallowed
harrowed, it bears fruit though patently barren
someone told us it is ours and though we forget easily
we remember this, it is ours, someone told us so

the taste of this place is what I remember; the taste
of each other, my blood in your mouth, on your fist
I wipe away the regret of a moment ago and launch myself
at you, all thoughts, remembrances aside; the taste

soil, black and loam, acid sandy, salt and base, the blandness
of thirst, and the taste of dirt, is how I know this place

this place of thorns and grass, lush as a mattress, tough as stone
the throne of many a toss with thee; I know this place as it
has heard my groans, my laughs of privacy and deceit; I
conquered this place, you gave it to me; this place, you gave it to me

I remember these flowers as I wait to gaze at snow
I remember crystals as I watch this garden grow
I see a wave upon a beach far from any shore
in fields of grass that drown my sight; I rise, I soar
weightful, a thing of this earth, a moment’s satellite

the sky, a dream of far away
the moon, that mysterious land, impossible, free

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