Out here, the open night is my church, the trees are my congregation, the stars are my angels and the moon is the only god that I know.

The moon makes love to the ocean and in this holy conception it gives birth to a little tide.

I spread my fingers outward, letting the knife tip of my middle finger rip the sky as it tares a rift in the moon.

Sometimes at night when the moon is almost full and my hands go numb from writing, I cleanse myself of her poisoned love. I welcome the water, the inevitability of death and embrace the long painful road out of love.

i witness the birth of the moon and her servants walking the night sky pulling us into their wake