This moon

This is the moon of worms
and sugar, of crows and crust and sap
the full bloom moon,
trickling, syrupy sweet
and saffron bright
into the street, at night.

This is the moon that
floods the path for snow drops,
their blind heads poking above
dead leaves and twigs
left by winter’s tidal drift.

This is the moon of dry skin
and the bull-headed crocus,
bursting from glassy ground like
clown-coloured sperm
to penetrate the frosted globe
of air, holding its mirror to this
lusty Lenten

this girlishly chaste
and pulse-quickening moon,
this ancient, burnished
starlit lamp

this aspirin
this round worm
this bindi
this lamb


this moon

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