oo 000 oo (poems from old notebooks, summer 1997)

The moon, slightly past full, looks
squeezed at the top as if
                                        someone—
some god, some child (same difference) had
reached for it in a moment
                                        of desire
(perhaps for an over-ripe kiwi) and had it squirt
between thumb and palm into
the night sky.
The stars? Well, they splattered there.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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