Revisionist Poetry – Ghost Moon, v.2

A sound shatters the moonlit quiet —
one thin cry that splits the hush,
makes the chest lift, makes eyes climb upward
to the ghost-moon pinned between bare branches.

It hangs like a deliberate coin, pale and small,
hovering where twig-silhouettes stitch the sky;
a patient light that pulls the throat tight,
that leaves the mouth empty and the pulse loud.

Wind answers with a long, toothless howl;
leaves scrape like old papers through the yard.
Echoes gather in the hollows of the mind —
a small insistence that will not leave.

Come, then — follow the thin bright seam:
in the dark there is a sudden, clean fear,
and something spared of time: a quiet beauty
that keeps its face toward the cold and watches.