Hunters Moon

[mroning tide]

This is the month of the death of the father,
this is the month of desultory grief.
October, tensile, resonates to
the tarnished metallic despair
of unlove, blunt stabbed into the gut.

This is the month of undigested sin,
sitting in the mineral sharp stomach of October.
Cut adrift from all names, nights
lying exposed on bone cold streets
dowsed in bitter acid light,
cold and callous pure.

These are the nights of flickering film stills,
the chaff that blows unhomely in
unanchored hours.

I have danced in the wake of a long past vessel, hidden
face down from the shadow echo spat out by fire
and the salt tears cried into walls.

This is the month of the Hunter's moon
holding me captive
all your years.