---

William Matthews - Talking To The Moon
Work rating: Low

A defeated politician is in circulation 
again, as we say of coins, 
and his mouth is full of words. 
His words have all been handled smooth. 
They`d shrink, like lozenges, except 
some sweat from everyone who`s had them 
is on them. He could be you, 
why don`t you support him? 

But some people hoard words. 
"The year the lake froze all the way 
across . . . ," a sentence might begin 
and then nod, sleepy in a hot kitchen. 
The words are a spell to make the lake 
freeze again. The sentence never ends. 

Rick used to love to tell how he 
and Joanne would creep into her parents` 
house after dates, and under 
the dining room table he`d eat her 
out, he`d say, as if she were an egg 
and he a weasel. 
His eyes gleamed with grief. 
He wanted her back. He told 
the story again and again. 
The full moon fills the canyon 
with pale cream. My huge dog leans 
against my knee so hard 
he`d fall over if I moved. 
Soon he`ll go to sleep under the juniper. 
The other morning a finch landed on his back 
while he slept. He unfurled one eye. 
Hmmm, a finch.... I tell him his name. 
He goes to the juniper and sleeps. 

The moon`s so bright 
it has no features, button with no holes. 
I`ve nothing to say to the moon. 
Still, I want to talk. 
I want words to be magic, 
some secret I have the way I have 
my body, so long as it lasts. 
I want words to be food, 
enough for us all to eat. 
The mild stars shine. 
The words I want 
are sewing my body to sleep, 
the no news that is good news, blood 
tying and untying its knots.
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.