the boney moon, dragged by hibiscus over the red hills.
Your moth wings baby-rattling the drowning of the stars, the symmetry of our skeletons for asylum; the moon, she finds my darkness by the Katsura leaves. The atramental vagary of her lays in my hands.
psithurism, algedonic to the death strokes when she flutters, how she rises to meet me. I tire to the maniac violets, their ribs exposed in each idiot feather; oh, in their last breaths, does the moon ever glisten? Barefooted to broken glass, the moon cuts my hands as we dance;
she dies a bit more
leave-taking in winter’s breast strokes
drowning in grief.
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Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a haibun that uses the word “moon.”