From your porch
the endless stars
shine like silver holes
that have been
shear-snipped
from the black
blanket of night
as if you were
the only one with
scissors between
your fingers and
blood on your palms.
Is there a greater
darkness than
wanting? A greater
yearning than shaping
the infinite heavens
into a pattern fit
to be sewn?
Above you,
the halved autumn
moon tips in the sky,
and it slices through
the ambivalent clouds.
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