Hugged gravity of the gibbous moon,
this perfect circle, a chipped white plate

its center, a pale reach the compass leg
enscribing silvery thought, red to violet,

surrounding bow. How is the world,
broken, turning in stillness. not moon?


So large! The tide roiling, the sea-wound
and broil like a dream afraid, the moon

so near. A pale basket being hauled
into the sky, beginning a separation,

the amazed heart swelling; a redness
failing in the west; our breath caught up.


What I carry with me from the North
fallen into a glittering field

of sea, the water’s many small deaths
the timid openings of memory.

Whatever I was, whoever you
are, dolor of ghostly origins

all around us, this stripping off, this
pallor as we step out of our names.

John Allman | Mudlark No. 31
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