Moonrise

The moon rises

i wash my face in her tears

clouds scud across the stuttering stars

i wipe my eyes on sky's dark cloth

and all the while,

as these mystical happenings loom large in front of me,

i hardly see them

i scarcely feel the roughness of the cloth

so lost in grief am i,

so already-raw,

that no new pain can match it,

no sight nor sound can measure up

and no spirit can revive what i have lost.

[written 18th September]