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.