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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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Tonight the moon was a perfect scimitar
murdering the day in its own watered-down blood; tonight the moon was a delicate scythe harvesting the last fat grains of light from the over-ripe, ergot-ridden rye. I looked at the perfect, tortured blade of the moon, and wondered at its oriental tempering- how many thousands of foldings and beatings? Wondered at the translucent slice of stone: an impossibly-shaped quartz flake, knapped and used and left behind by an arctic toolmaker in the blue-green chalk of the evening sky. Tonight the moon did not follow me, as once it did, when I was a child- when it was made solitary by the window of a night train, and brushed flat by a row of graveyard pines. Now, much older, I understand the moon does not only move for me, but once! oh, once, the moon was mine, and belonged behind my left shoulder.
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