I toss the word and prod it so that underside shows; it appears different, metamorphosing right there on the ground as did the moon in the sky today – wordless, empty without a luminosity that makes me ache with longing.
A blue thread slices through time neat, spins a web spiraling and transfixing the moon in a newness, weightless with wings fragile like rice paper, willing to be torn. I saw my name disengage and fly, laughing in the new found freedom.
The perfect moon moves several notches up, filling with words from my crowded mind. I axe through space to carve out silence that could be death. Lines are slipping away from shapes, sounds become deflated sails.
After all the word did not travel far in time, stayed close like a shadow for a while and made way between lines, into a poem; but its orbit is now like the drunken moon with a mysterious arc that I can only follow and not trace.