Harvest moon’s stumbled in
with all of summer’s baggage.
Puts his feet up on the table
and glowers at me
while the scuttling clouds
grumble into drunken brawls.

And it slips away,
the dispassionate dream.
It’s only rain
and electricity.
And I don’t want to wait
for the right sign
or the right time.

What a wasteland we make of it.
Collect a million brilliant moments
and remember nothing.
It all adds up to zero.
Why not spend it
on wild and loose,
before it passes on?

The lightning remains detached,
while we wax with the moon.
And with muddy hands
full of seeds,
deaf bones and
words hot and wet,
we try to bring it down.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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