anton,
stop talking about moonlight, stop talking
about glass. i’m glinting enough
myself. did you hear
that she left and didn’t turn back
once, didn’t understand
the way light captured itself
in her hair?
i’ve had it, i tell you i’ve
had my fill of words and lines
and ink and spilling myself
in rings on her slim hands
i’ve had enough of the same same
time reading you, imagining
your beard so svelte and hungry
pictured against snow in tintype
spilled tincture
etcetera, the volumes are full,
anton; so again,
stop talking about moonlight. i’ve
thrown moons out of
the window before. i’ve eaten
moonlight filled and plenty,
it fractured
when it hit my tongue.