World enough

Moon that passes
infinitely slow
and infinitely fast
beneath a copper-

clad shadow, I stop
the hand that holds
a ladle from banging
on the iron pot—

The truth is, I don’t
want the monster
to spit you out
of its throat

just yet.
The truth is,
I think the longer
you stay on its

rough tongue,
the longer I
might have
to figure out

these forms. There’s
so much yet to do—
Count and sort
odds and ends;

spirit a steed;
teach the rain how
to salve and close
its wounds.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Self preservation.

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