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The moon's last quarter filters a tiny grid through the draperies' crack and the venetian blind's bias slab-cuts the platinum ray, illuminating my bed's cold breadth. I can barely see to write in its thin metallic glare. All the prairie night lies in this drop of molten moon that punctuates pillowprint and writing tablet and one moonbeam focuses on the very spot the next word must go. Line by line I slide pad up the pillow so that this pentip indelible might capture the fluid essence of moon metal. Here. Let me refine this cold lunar ore with bright heart heat into form to hold, before I nod off. I shall trail incoherent scribbles into the snoozy dark's slumbersong; I shall snort my drooly nightwind and mash my distorted, bespectacled face into writing- pad pillow. The dawn shall cool this. The dawn shall illuminate some subtlety that this night's penstab etches into the hardening slag. Cold moonglow and heart heat. There was another moon, a fuller moon, textured by Pre-Cambrian pineboughs in the long-ago boreal night and it lit your upturned face and glowed redly in your curls and glistened from our sweat and glittered from lips and nipples and forehead as I traced your charm, your heat, your wet. I seldom slept then, either. |
