Insect days. At night, the pure dilemma
of the moon.
Here is my answer: obsidian lacquer.
Here is my answer: paint the moon black.
Give me time to re-align
my “practices and habits”
—by recognizing them.
He said. She said.
(At this point they tossed their velvet
voices in the trash.)
Talk to me like dirt.
Talk to me like wind.
Talk to me like sweat.
Use your plainest voice.
Walk with me into this new room.
Light a match, if you must see.
Do not pretend you have to name it,
limit it or know it.
Call this a riddle.
Let the room speak.
Call this permission.
Call this a prayer.
Do not say I do not love
the moon.