moon.

in the echoes

to the moonrise

and flowers 

they look like hand-bones,

eclipsed into cursive

cold-blooded writ;

lucent dream

a pilgrimed father

at the seabed of darkness,

his bones

touch

the skull-fish;

the ghost of owl

forgets his repetitions

it holds its wings

into the winter moon

blood-red, it rooks

the dying

and the tree,

you are merely mind, if not memory

into a lungless wind.

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Written for the Go Dog Go Cafe Prompt: Write a piece of prose or poetry around the words cursive, touch, and forget.

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