Moon. And aftershock. How the mystery travels
isn't important. Anyway, it goes
through you and me, and walls, in keen disguise;
our bodies barely privy to its revels.
Moon. Is that a name? And when it wanders
so do our frenzies wander, Darfur camp
where last we met, and said the one escape
for either of us might entail doc shredders.
You rise, the Moon between us. Lights a trail
all clowns dissolve upon, for they must keep
fitful vigil. Here, the dying sing
as twilight more than steals among warm cinders,
and someone in a white coat whose control
the valley has not seen, betrays the Moon.