The croaking moon,
Primal, flows under
The bridge, until it is
Green ice, cracking under
Rifle butts and the stomp
And squeaking snow of
Jumping military boots.
Diamond, sealed, hope
That snow, full circle, will
Fall from wings like pine branches,
To take flight if the Devil’s face
Is crushed. But the moon stays graveless,
Between limbs, above the western
End of Laurel Avenue, just before dawn.
No one to kill. My body
Is a black tree. The last of my leaves
Are floating in a pool
Of moon, at the river’s end,
Where my roots are speaking
To the sky, telling the buds
To open my head. Ego grace, it shivers.