A baby the shape of the moon
Hangs by its ear from a tree,

Illuminates the ground with soft
Coos of blue light.

What kind of world,
Where the sky abandons

Such a sound leaking from the knees
Bending over a nervous fire.

What kind of hand,
To crawl like kudzu up and down

These walls, where inside
Warm regions flower mice

And spider the corners
With resonant threads.

History repeats itself in the shape
Of black trousers joined at the legs.

In the pockets, gravity circles
Bulging at the sight of light,

Splitting at the seams,
Bearing a twin to describe itself–

A sum of sounds; night swallowing
Night, curling into a ball

And falling asleep
Sucking its milky thumb.

by Gary Joseph Cohen
published in Isotope

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