Gibbous Fall
The wind is blowing,
the moon is high,
the dead and dry leaves
chattering the price of sole in China.
The gibbous moon moves
fishmouth-like through the Virgin.
Spica, star of an ear of wheat,
peers down, drowning in moonlight,
from over two hundred years ago.
The wind, an old song about a youth
killed on a midnight highway,
blows stiff and sad. The oak,
gloomy godzillas and kongs,
stand tall, air-shampooing their hair.
Leaves over the concrete scatter,
cling a moment in the grass,
hoping the coming rain
will raise a memory from their fall.
Horror Sleaze Trash 