by Brent Raycroft
The full moon shines through hunted clouds.
Sides and quarters, loins and flanks
and tattered hides glide by,
of beasts that never lived
and never died.
The full moon carries –
no – it floats on steady fingertips
a blue and copper aura
like a platter lit with brandy,
onward through the crowd.
It is the best of waiters
heading for a table far from ours.
A rabbit at work. A man, a woman, a word.
For me, every time, it’s the face of surprise –
those full dark eyes, that open mouth,
that silent “Oooh! …”
like a child or drunken fool
who for the first time –
or what seems to be –
looks up and sees the moon.
— from Juniper Volume 4, Issue 1