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.