Dream of the Moon If wounded sunset bled until the dawn, and didn’t dry its veins away and die, I’d never see the skull of its skeleton, that needles up and wavers on the sky as men in garb on mardigras, or know the mad, mad katadyds, the rain-punched pond that boiled as casserole in an oven’s glow, throughout last night when water rubiconned the doorstep and I saw the heavens fracture -not just the skull you see, but all white bones gone mashing, snapping almost to contracture- barred and endured for me by aching pane of glass that yelped when pebbles, rocks and stones skipped and attacked it in the rush of rain.