Howard Firkin
The moon, as dogged as an albatross,
is sweeping city streets again tonight
and missing nothing—not a crack that might
provide a hollow for dead leaves to doss.
Its search is touching everywhere at will.
You hear it, dry as static in the air:
a rustle in the garbage, teeth on bone;
its footsteps scraping tempered steel on stone;
the silver fingers playing through your hair;
its breath inside your lungs; the brittle chill.

Each pane of glass reflects that drowned man face.
The secrets nibbled from its lips have died
in many smaller mouths and left their trace:
a single, legion corpse on its own tide.