camped beneath the moon in september

somewhere . . .
a fire sparks
snapping open to the belly-sound of
moonbells & violins
dust spins crystalline
and
porcelain thins
willow sails lowered to
the drift & roll
wind out of the north, north-west
vellum held under my tongue
to melt into honey & rye
felted transience pressed between newsprint
and
pluto's apples . .
ladders of bone rise from the wallow & swill
sleep .... rest
gypsies dance upon your grave
and call you home . . .
call you home