The plastic doorway sips at the cold
and the trouble with patience
is color, the way the moon
slips in and out of its texture.
Everything is quiet in the moat,
each number you sneak from my mouth
rolls its r’s like a child discovering
moisture on the back of a song.
A ring sits on a window’s ledge.
A dog is near. A noose is slipped.
A log in the distance finds melody,
finds comfort distended by the stomach.
Just as I never recovered my father
from his ashes I never plan
on coiling my peers into lengths.
This cot has a rhythm the night
mimics with a slow rolling
and when the radio is tipped
the static whispers the prayers of ghosts.
I wish I had something original to report,
something my lengthened peers
could coil in the corner
of a dim-lit yet warming room.
The dog rattles its tags,
shits a bullet on the hardwood floor.
Moon, I run a dungeon you’ve seen from above.
Inside I mold each plastic keepsake
the tide removes from the candles’
shattered circle on the beach.
Moon, my name is Simon.
I’m 31 years old.
I hate the feeling of breath behind the nose,
believe glitter comes from the sea.
I’ve seen you behind a snow globe,
freed your lung from spring’s hinge.
Moon, it’s important that when we sleep
we uncover the madness each day
steals from the garden of our hands.
It’s important that when we whisper
to the dark that we never mention its darkness.
Moon, this isn’t for you.
This is for your likeness.
I have a shovel it painted with night.
Have a belief your fading color will stain.
It’s here by the dead shoots,
here where my moniker dissolved,
that I finally remember a past tense
like a rake building tunnels for mice
or a chain connecting my torso to the moon.
It’s here that the chants of children
echo the balded bowl of dawn
and you, daffodil, have a plastic
horse you’ve yet to mount.