This time the moon came in a box

A stitch of dust

Not a cereal box or a box
That has sides

In stitches of dust

Bright
Without lifting a finger

The soul has no details
No story of its own

Crammed in with the guts of
Hot wire and ramble of falling rain

It is the blood that spills
Into its capacity

And footfalls on a road
Like two sticks of dynamite
Have nothing else to say

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s