Sentencing the Moon (a Sestina)

The moon’s a sentenced convict 
in a star-barred sky, bold in her great
-ness. She’s asked Orion’s belt to play 
her something snappy, some happy race 
along the Milky Way. We admire her season 
-ed song, the wolf-toned reason she howls her voice. 

The day’s got a troubled voice 
of its own, no reason to convict 
that crooked moon. We cry, and season
everything in salt and the great 
bright promise of a race,
a finish we can’t win. We play

at longing, the play 
of breeze along our cells and skin, the voices 
of trees. No one can erase
these bright etched lines, convict 
us to our sentences of great 
syllabled sway, or season. 

We pour these wordled seas on 
paper skins, play 
along their waves in great 
white hope. We stoke our voices 
in skyfire, the pro and con-vict
way the tide’s erase 

the dawn. We race 
upon the marbled season
springs of summer; winter’s convict
jailbird is a stumbled tongue, a play 
on words, a warbled voice,
the choice of some great 

wrong. Guilty! We say in great 
bold strokes. (Of what, we can’t embrace.)
We choose the voice 
of devil, chased by seasons
of fallow ground and fiddled play. 
(We’re still convinced that moon’s the convict.)

No way out, we convict ourselves to great
-ness, evil genius in the play of growl and grace.
To everything a season, and an unbarred voice. 

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