Dark One, I listen. A dun summer moon
rises, a gap, shun the sky, that space. Space
as the sun slips down into a wet June,
this son with a soul is always wet. Grace
was once a gun or a moth, that of air
but not in the air. Now none and nothing.
What son has a soul? and what sort of prayer
is this? The lascivious nun’s burning
faith. But not like faith. Switch to one shadow
and run halfway home. Daughters run. Daughters
know that the moon-dawn can still stun. Listen,
Dark One. I am a child of the cock’s crow.
The sky scares me for it is always her’s.
What’s left is noise. The cicadas have won.