Things that multiply

A waning moon skulks behind smudges of ashen clouds,

waiting to fold into the edges of our eyes and deep into the wounds of trees.

Thin as papyrus, but for a craning jaw sprouting cannibal teeth

up and through gum flesh, timeworn and lacking.

It is like waiting
for a paused news bulletin to begin/
power to be reconnected/
bills to be paid/
wet laundry to air/
velvet to be worn to the party (if you get there).

We portion time, and ration the night.

But still the moon rises, just as a knot of morning mist unravels for a tune to

rise and roll across the air without that band of concrete coloured fog.