Time hurts
bone deep in the moon’s ankle

treading darkness
and jingling a bracelet of tears
as you cry.

Another sleepless night
and you look out the window
staring at the sky’s gypsy.

She is patched soft
with rags of mist.

A few stars straggle
on her hair
blowing as dark wind
through trees and fence posts

dug hard into the soil
like broken-off heels.

You mend sorrow
by gluing lost moments
back on memory’s shoes;

but walking home in thought
only throbs more

when you crave the shadow
of ferns
brushing cobblestone
as his cottage door comes into view.

Half open,
its narrow frame

hangs brown and rough-grained
like a monk’s robe
trailing ivy.

Inside,
light slants the small room
golden

and you see his face
shining on your skin 

as if it were a chalice
held up to passion
at noonday mass.


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