Pining miles from the town
She thinks of the moon, needs it close
Exposed scrub brushy like a death fringe
She remembers watching moonlight split and splatter
Grinding grey drooping dry
She wonders whether the moon misses the earth when daylight arrives
A stubby round structure stands clay and fiber
She imagines the grace of the moon
Erected like a wooden cross in the breeze
She imagines the moon caught between its arms
Empty form hanging on underneath peeling the dust off
She wishes she could hang her dreams there
A human woman stands there hot northerly scorching crops
She thinks about the moon touching the hills of her being
Naked in the shape village men's dream
She imagines being painted silver as an extension of the moon
The house is oval and needy like the faces in the village
She looks at the moon and predicts it's own desires
Drying clothes outside touching her arms night wheezes
She imagines sleeping under the cross as the moon peaks and tickles her
Awaiting a maid who left the village a decade past
For a man who got lost in distant mountain ranges seasons passed.
She waits for both and even the moon refuses to return.
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário