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.