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I launch beer bottles at the moon hoping to open a sluicegate or knock it out of orbit. Instead I’m left with palms full of moondust cut with shards of glass. Winter came early this year, and I lay in repose, as branch laden with snow, dragging my feet, my sparrow guts. The moon tips sickly shadows at me, and still I wait. Goodnight, moon. I’ll come for you soon. |