Moonlight in the kitchen is a sign of God.
Does the moon ever shine in my kitchen with its northeast window? Maybe only in January, on the full moon known as Wolf, or Popping Trees, or Absence of Bears.
and the rattling wind
in one bed
2:00 a.m. road
without cars the tarmac’s
into mere roadkill
so many stars
all these travels written
in my teeth
One set of keys for the day and one for the night. But if the locks fill with rain they will drown and our souls will devolve like cetaceans, returning to the deep and its sunless music, now with microplastic.
Nautical twilight. A distant, non-human wail from one of the farms in the valley. Microdrops of rain on my face.
The pleasure of watching headlights move through a forest ten miles away.
Through the bottom of my mug, my other hand shrinks into an insect: seat of my soul, dung beetle. Scarab sacred only to a little world of shit.
When you sit or lie1 on the forest floor, in a strong wind you may feel slight movements beneath you: tree roots working the night shift.
It’s too cold for the bat. Now the moon is recalling all shadows.
Do trees feel the moonlight? If so, it must be the lightest caress.
Gazing directly at the moon for too long feels disrespectful, especially when it’s just beginning the monthly molt.
A voice off in the forest calls You and after several seconds the response: Yah.
That lone window still lit at 4:00 in the morning. The patch of dim light it inflicts on the edge of the forest.
every hidden hammer
hitting its string
the pianist’s fingers
not her own
I can’t stop fantasizing
With their frog mouths and weird nocturnal calls, the nightjars wouldn’t seem out of place in one of Hieronymous Bosch’s teeming tableaux.2 One North American species, the common poorwill, is the only bird known to go into a prolonged state of torpor very like hibernation.
I go out to take a leak
landscapes of my childhood
aglow with bleakness
knocking at my house
must be sleepless too
The first hint of dawn in the sky and in the forest the first hint of gray. It begins its daily dwindling into mere woods.
1 Due to the threat of Lyme disease, this is of course best done in a tent.
2 I do a web search and sure enough, Bosch gave Lucifer the head of a nightjar: