I keep to looking at it,
to moving it still with
the wooden gaze of my spoon
and the fish-flank moon.

‘Oh moon, moon!’ I think, in not
so many words. Not so many.

Epochs and
ephemera,

all shook out violet,
clear fume
fish-flanking across the moon

We share liquids.
We bear fruit. Fruiting in
the white rivers above.

The glint blue domes below.

between them is a great fear.
no pity, or air, or rizlas or fists

My eyes. I,
my brown and paired pitted
repetitions scintillate
sitting
in the silver of a million solar zeros.
Am hungry.
Am changed, far away,
from you.
And you.

And you all.

Feet hot in dust,
head, in this cold shining gas.
Cyclonic milk, in specks, in splashing
profuse, cosmic greed, versal generosity.
In the venal soup as we break our banks
again. And yet, again.

The sea is deep, and then deep again
the stars, the shifting bars keeping together
and breaking over like weather, like floods
of argon and ether, plasma and rain clouds.
And all this, all this phlematic neon parade of
sparsness and fullness and bright, bright light,
seems smaller than a lamb within your thighs,
a trinket about your rich neck, your burning wrists.
Wastes and nothings and cold black holes
numberless out there,
numberless within.
So why?

Come
to
me
and and stir me all to ups and frothing downs
starkstruck, star raving
with the sliver gaze of your spoon

Percy J. Currie