little hang of moon sit there-

cat-quiet waiting out this last

bluff of cold-

we stand on a small hill

and the contrails spread in

amoebic senselessness

fingers prying the sky wide,

it's broken places

patched in cold ghost light-

moon. dead rock and

lonely conquest, up

waiting for new voices-

and in the miracle of

the modern, motion, each moment

change in itself-

small jets invisible except for

blinking red, white,

widening vapor trail

sweep of headlights along

the peak of nighttime.

we stand on a hill

we stand on a hill and

watch unfolding, little moon,

waiting, alone.