we act with varying degrees of premeditation,
and you know how the dangerous moon must do what it does.
because of this i can’t tell if the threatened confession —
the siren song of the road —
is more or less than calculated temptation.
i want you to say something true.
i thought we’d forgotten how to dream,
but goddamn if we don’t wake again to the strains of that sweetest song.
I was drawn and quartered
on the floor
when the sirens kicked in
and we had forgotten the old drill
of waiting for all clear.
And we were sorry for not listening,
so we made our hearing hard.
And I deserved these desertions —
diversions from the way
it never stops calling the wind.
Its hunger the devouring dark
of a new-moon midnight,
we feed it,
and feed it again —
an open vein,
salt eye and skin,
sorrow and shame —
and it feasts
yet first grows thinner
for a time —
a lying in wait,
but always testing the air
for thin wires of light —
measuring the most minute movement,
ever ready to take us unaware.