Sonnet

Such are days I can believe the moon to be
Unleavened bread, but for scars I see unseam
A neck so collared in every dissolute color; I’ll believe,
Instead, the moon is cut from threadbare Pampur tweed.
The moon is bread, if through a spent halo in decline
She yet shines, something too finely used or unseemly old,
Something a man may slip in with money owed
The peasant girls—this moon is counterfeit coin.
The moon is unleavened bread and the mountains
Hunger. The Clouds again put out kitchen fires.
But in woods I’ll see by glimmer light and glean faeries
By the glow of their cooking stoves and on distant peaks I’m sure
There’s a little rice that’s trying to grow. I’ll let my hunger know,
I’ll heave my eyes to the heavens.

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