sharp tilted distraction
lives in illness’ wake
marring the peace of night rest
delivering fever dreams
of the oddest sort
the lost arrive bedside
the current lean wildly
to the far left of any
of reality’s norms…
parting last night’s bedside curtain
the light propped a moon sliver
atop mid branch of the owl’s tall pine
i uncorked its milky tip
lifted parched, cracked lips to its corners
and drank in a poison
of undeserved redemption
in a prayer for wellness
i laughed
still begging in the night
for a pagan curse
to release this brew of sick
The poets laugh with joy
When Kanzan and Jittoku
See the perfect moon,
Break
Into a thousand rippling stars
As they grasp its light.