Moon, reaching in actinically, past the frame,
Fogged through the tarnished glass.
Distance, as definite as a shut gate,
from the silhouettes of framing trees
that do the fatuous illusion of
sentry-go on my silver sixpence.
A coinage so profligate with light.
The unausagable grief of so much seperation
Freezes deep in the bone.
Even filtered, moderated, by the transitory permanence
Of the square paned windows of my home, vertigo
Of a fastly receding perspective
Aches the eye and the stomach.
The clenching of a hand.
The sudden urge to try to write
Down the impossible, exiled Moon.

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