The moon weaves.
The moon weaves itself into the stars
and the street empties its cats and cars.
An abandoned shadow spreads like frost
in a crisp blanket over parking lots
and church yards
and cheap wine bladder liquor stores
and dusty cars
with salty tires
bare spots on the telphone wires
men sprawled on the sidewalk, drunk and dying.
The moon meshes with the ice on the sidewalks
and the moths call from their warm lights
and the worms call from the warm holes
in a dead black lab in the dust from the road,
in the ditch,
with it bitch and its babies on a cliff
crying for their stiffened hunter
to wake up and crawl home
and stay awake with the moon.
The moon weaves itself into our lives
and looks on as we are left alone in its light.