It’ll Get Worse Before It Gets Worse

The black heart of the moon’s visible

through the trees from here.

Where are you?

I’m alone on the road

with a dead phone.

The birds are flapping overhead

but there’s not much light to be guided by.

If any horizon becomes visible enough to follow.

Forget the rain’s smear,

the chafe of fabric at the calf.

The money ran out. The diners are stuffed

and back for more.

Each terrible thing I said to the child

will get repeated hopefully as a joke.

And like language, these gestures, or a certain way of nodding

one’s head, it all eases in with less than a breath.

Forget the song’s words, the order of the band’s set tonight.

The black moon’s heart’s

got that sinister bent

and I want to get

touched at by the snakes.

One of the students in my class

used to go bear hunting with his two uncles.

They played recordings of distressed animals

to lure in tentative animals to kill.

This practice is illegal in many places.

Because it’s so very effective.

I split open the apple

and hand the good half to a child on the bus

nestled in under the arm of her sleeping mother.

Love from here is a long way to go.

Get on your bike and ride

through the lights.