Moon Mirrored, Indivisible

move, Moon, less west

of a word strung down to men

being  just some couple guys borne

as tropes in a discourse

on rights—to express

to malcontent, the right to run that voice

along the walls of the agora

stretched to fit a reasonable night

coming on

and in the mirror I’ve said, immigrant

my name is argument

small as my means

weak as the custody of the one star

you mirror down trying to unearth

ancient huacos—vessels for gods

otherwise inhabiting local boulders

traffic circles, the Circle K

but I’ve been dreaming

of killer ghosts to be dealt with

in real-time ways like

              breathe in, hold

              turn away—blood

              on my face

              and shirt and hands—

from a wayward truth about great ancestors

“they’re damaged, they’re damaged

they’re so

comfortable,” you say

in a three-lined English that should

help me wash the present moment

of  belief, this

on the day when the whole story back

to the bus station is turning

the whole town understands

citizens as threats that could catch

and burn a light

so you can see us, little Moon

making a gateway to wholesome

desert seaside living, no gods

only the staff they offered to strike Earth

and there make the navel of the world

don’t even bother to break it, lie down

in what you look at and rest