Prophet

The moon carries all the meaning.
When it shines in my window
it brings me messages
from someone I hardly know
but who seems to know me quite well.
All the shadows of lamp or curtain are prophecies
whose darkness and shape can foretell
if I just look deeply.
The words whisper carefully while I sleep –
when I wake, I see the shadows I dreamed through.
Like the dark outline of some fever,
I find small comfort in turning,
in moaning,
in thick restlessness.
I look for morning to break my dark vision
but the sun brings no rest.
It only stings
while that old crescent cuts and scrapes
and turns another part of my soul to its own shapes.
I’m not yet strong enough for dawn,
but the moon can bear it all,
past my battered eyes,
past my dreams,
to the very heart of my meaning.

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