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Bones; Moon; Their Beauty; Spawning Season

Smudged moon, bleared moon, moon of indistinct sorrows –

How after all this time to put you in a poem & let you remain

So much has been annexed from the realm of poetry

& now if we write of beauty, if we sit in awe –

Shame we are not deconstructing or even, being blind.

Still I long for you, moon over the holy coldness of the ocean during

Spawning season where beneath your bone-light

Hundreds of salmon spines lie, their frail lace cleaned out by gulls

& left to the night, moored boats that have done what they came to do.