Nocturne, Tonight

By | 1 May 2020

From the boathouse we speak of no one. With my foot on the water
I feel the moon outside. Angelo
has given birth to a horde of dragonflies, they come
in the night— they whisper

that the climate is changing, to splay my hips because anything
is changing.
I write to warn my family: Dearest Mother & Father
The terrain a womb, is splitting—there is little left and how will we eat.
I am still addicted to drugs. But don’t worry—
the air will dry up soon and all that will be left is this sandy road
that provides no relief.
No sound of crickets, or hyacinths—
No sound
but the sound of dragonflies
and no relief. I came to expect more but there is little more
than my foot on the water
and the curved bone of this dying moon.

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