Poetry from The Literary Review


Degrees of September Moonrise

The moon above windbreak pine is overfull.
Horizon cloud-mountains surround the clear sky.
Crop flowers nearly sparkle in crop beginning to darken, to gray,
alongside a russet fallow.

The moon darts among pine trunks I pass, deepens,
some tan roadside grasses and black-eyed Susans stand out the more.
A black mare, almost invisible next to her barn, watches me by.

Now the moon has broken away above everything
as I continue my walk on out flat land
through a sudden and strong rush of manure,
as if I might leave the ground.