“Moon in Motion” by Ian Ayres

And the drooling moon soaks through this moth-eaten blanket that hides us from the sun. We call the tiny holes stars and darkness night, but nobody hears moisture climb into clouds. Limited sensations guard the mystery of flesh containers that ebb and flow evoluted oceans called blood. Only blood. Oceans carried onto land, passed down from centuries to generations to be called species. Only species. And the moon slobbers all over our ever-evaporating dreams.

Pleased by a little breeze in cement fog (blessed be all hands pressed together for any god), wind only reminds me of howling wolves soaring; of atmospheric pressure; of propellers; of friction caused by what many call an old explosion. Doesn't anybody feel their body blasting air, splashing blood, devouring, aching, dying--Bang? Theory. Oh, theory. Oh, give me hope. Hope of ripping through night's blanket. Hope to get a better view.

The moon is my bald-headed grandfather. His yesterday is my today. His today is my tomorrow. And tomorrow always comes too soon.





"Moon in Motion" dedicated to Russell Ford