I find this moonlight mysterious.

Crescent curve of white froth.

I squint my eye,

To collect a trace of her melting blood.

It is opaque in my mind,

Shallow in my hand.

I could bite my lip each day sitting near the windowsill

To see her changing phases.

To see her collecting nocturnal chants

Under my body of God.

I sit & rub this wild air under my earlobe,

A whimper of soft loss of something.

This pervasiveness of things.

Confined,

Like a necklace of walls.

I sit like a lotus often,

In solids and squares too.

Creating illusions of holding moonlight like an earring.

Sliced orange air.

A temperature drop in my naval.

Like a poet vanishing into the stench of a sea.

With words eaten & gulped.

Where did it go?

Things eat each thing like a murder.

This purple hue of the moon watches,

A slow death happening to me,

A slow, futile, inexplicable twitch occurring.

The pupil commutes like a castle. Soft yet fragile.

What is it, I wish for?

What is that light so pungent?

Bound, flexible so wild.

As if I am a hoax of sustenance.

I watch it combining and detonating.