solitary is split in two
between sunrise
and the impartial moon.
someone told her
the moon had seas,
and she constructed the vision
that luna held the might-have
in never water’s arms.
in the palm of shattered night,
words fall as exhausted moths,
brief about dishonest suns.
in this way she comes to sleep,
weary of change, squeezing dreams
into the small spaces
between setting and rising.
