the lemon peel of the moon rinded
clean and yellow,
i lie at it, am citric
am caustic and uncauterised, an angry
wound waiting to be burnt clean,
souring beneath the acned hours of stars,
the moth-bitten cashmere of some sleepless dream above me,
i wear it, am lost in its endless sleeve
its endless jawing of stars,
how they’ve fed, bright-toothed,
on men
on sanities
my mind hinges
on their enamelled light,
dead and promise-less,
how i’ve taken their extinguished life and wished mine upon it,
i skeleton a future with these distant carcasses,
already bled and coffined in this blue eternal,
their elegy we’ve soothed
for centuries,
endless funeral
already monstered into legend,
into good, evil
or god,
i am none of these things,
one day, i will enter a minute and never leave
it alive
i am not endless
i am barely
there
empty as a trick of the mind,
as moonshine through the window,
my shadow is cast
on the bedroom wall,
and i don’t feel my existence is as much confirmed
as rumoured by it,
my body gossiped from the light
its endless tongue
its mouthless words —
i am small and hollow.
