On evenings singing low, we call down the moon so we can shine like new half dollars on parole.
So we can break free from the cold-boned prison of dead Mondays.
The moon reflects our truths and keeps our secrets.
The moon tells us if it’s ever placed before oblivion’s firing squad to not put a blindfold over its eyes.
It wants to see the bullets coming.
Then the moon uses a wishbone as a tuning fork to conjure forth the sweetest music.
There’s a moment when everything gets quiet. In the distance, we hear an angel’s needles knit a new pair of wings.