The Full Moon
by Jonny Reid
[ poetry - september 11 ]
My former verse
stretches as wide
as the Moon’s surface
across the gold visor
of an astronaut.
It is unearthly.
A huge time
is spent jumping
across the same
old surface.
Kicking up dust
and stabbing clouds
with a chequered flag.
It is soundless.
My craft is broken.
The same footprints
cross over themselves
as I circle myself.
What else can I do
but breathe the reserve
and descend
into the holes
of the environment?
I am chunky, white,
beneath the dot to dot
universe of stars
and black space.
It is an occasional glint
of light: I cross my
fingers and wait.
