When the Moon Becomes a Mouth

When I was sixteen
all day I'd stay awake,
a venus-trap waiting
for flies, honey-ed
mouth, a young moon
gathering clouds.

In my twenties,
a vibrant angel trolling
for stars; I could never
name the constellations
but I wanted to be one,
a cluster of one.

Thirty four... I gave up
prowling the nightskies,
settled my sights on the uneven
ground, learned to see
in the dark like an owl-
a large, slow bird.

Forty-some years, my ears
grown accustomed to voices,
faint as footsteps walking
in slippers, soft as touching
winter fur. Over and over,
they whispered: "listen closer".

Sixy-five hours draw nearer,
wrinkled wrists, furrowed lines,
worried brow. Weighted down
like fruit on its stem, a depressed
clown, the body is tested,
the mysterious, damaged.

Eighty seven, the moon
becomes a mouth, honey
sets on the tip of my tongue
and flies, so desired when
I was young, gather

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