INVOLUTION

The red ball you chased across
the long green lawn of your youth
plunged each time off a cliff
and you blindly after it,
a heap of hieroglyphic bones.

They are knitted now, those bones.
Their fracture lines knotted
into finest filigree.

Their labyrinthine patterns
invade your dreams nightly,
tattoos breathing
on a sailor's impending chest.

BLAME IT ON THE MOON

Should I wax caustic,
brandishing my pen
like a sickle,
blame it on the Moon.

Should I wield my self-pity
like a bludgeon,
blame it on the Moon as well.

And should I howl with rage
at the bite of love’s silver bullet,
blame it also on the Moon,

this gravid light
whose subtle passage
tugs at the ragged edges
of my reason.

Later, later, will I cry
over lost wildness
and disappear into violet dreams,
sighing softly.