One a.m.

Under an unforgiving winter
full moon
light,
bonded
I become
by these rules,

heavier than gravity
or speculation.

Disheveled sheets show
lasting impressions
in icy blue hues.

The sky reflects
jagged pieces
like a shattered mirror,

Fragmented
by this time
life traces the artwork,

Homer hovers above
A tired lady remakes her bed,
tucking in the corners
mitered under the mattress
as taught-

as if poetic justice
could be concealed by folds
or heat could be
contained.

Art is often a window
to what we are about to be-
come.

Cliches cling to us.

See,
beauty was always drawn to you
in long strokes thick in color
and time-
You would not look-
until Now.

It would always be shown
how moonlight erases any line
untrue
to round forms,
like heavenly bodies

tumbling through
mortal moments
both heavy and light
in alternate perspectives.


Painting by Winslow Homer, 'Moonlight' c. 1874 in Public Domain.