The moon opens
his
laughing Buddha mouth,
pumps
me full
of
tides and sky.
Dreams
from a cratered bowl,
gold
and overgrown,
swim
circles
of
unrequited sleep.
I
paddle tree-lined,
camera-shy
―
desirous
of secret rivers,
ungrounded
culverts.
At
dawn, he holds a up a mirror.
I
look just like him ―
round-faced,
crescent-eyed.
tk/July 2013
This poem was expertly read by R.A.D. Stainforth.
 |
| Supermoon 2013, Julio Cortez, AP |
