A kind of moonlace
stitched among stars
a watchful blind eye
hiding quietly in a corner of the sky
It hoards the complicated daylight
as an offering to night's shadow
tugging the fast-twitch muscles
of rabbits and ocean waves
along its silent trajectory
I find this habit of orbit
this puller of surf
tied to endless rhythms of
unspoken grief and madness
impossible crescent
slim and worn thin with wandering
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