The Moon Has Always Been an Alien
Alien
Once, this stable hosted tens of thoroughbreds. But this ranch has a history of lost riders and now, there is nothing else to ride. Set free by forgetfulness rather than truth, I am comfortable with my beliefs of the unseen. Under the night sky, scars become spider veins— like an atom blurred for naked eyes. There is migration anytime the sun coils into its cotton shell or when the ground cracks, because it thirsts for rain. Stalactites hang down the roof of a cave where shadows eclipsed the hieroglyphs. Before the storm, sharks fled their nurseries for the abyssopelagic zone, where the moon has always been an alien.
Light
— with a line from Kahf or the Cave As the sea rises, it absorbs lights from the sky in packets. A spider tents a web bridge across the well of oyster shells. Inside the mirror are reflections of cities on water. The window glasses in this house are old as toothed edges of cowries on the sea floor. A fisherman returned after a storm. In the past, disciples of this blue water sat on the beach with lungs filled with hot air, & thirsty for their wounds to be healed. Omi o ni ota, omi ni ìwòsàn ohun gbogbo. Though we name what we can neither inherit nor mourn, man has never been most of anything. The eye was cave enough to be a museum for beams of wandering blue lights, until they vanished before it rained. The storm blew octopuses to the beach. If the water breaks through, walk into the fog until you touch the water, A smoke from a burnfire dilates the cave’s entrances, hungered with grief, a new moon was sighted in a jar of salt water.