aren’t you, moon, one half of phoenix

aren’t you, moon, one half of phoenix

and weren’t you yesterday

            at this hour

half full,

blue

bulge protrusion, 

an alluvion of

usual?  weren’t you

just over my shoulder

and didn’t I at this hour feel the silk

strap of night slip

to my elbow and reveal

the other half

of you and didn’t you

until the gauze of day

pulled us from the bed

slip beneath it and unhook

the half that waited

and didn’t you lay

your burning

cheek there

and your burning

tongue

and your entire aching

half, until gravity, that master puppeteer

who’d already come, pulled you out

and took

a part

of me with you.

It is like this

when you are the bindi

of night—

days are more complicated.  I cover

myself entirely.  I wear more

perfume—

but moon:

when nights are these:

oh when nights are these:

see:!

 even as you leave

you drip our nectar wet light

all over the orchard.

By dawn everything will be

buzzing with bloom.