by Gideon Burton
The moon is full of sacred rivers, soft
as light. Their currents twist along the rim
of yawning craters, breaking past the brim
in slow parabolas that reach across
the quiet chasm, mingle here aloft,
then sink along the pores of rain to skim
the surfaces of night. Our time is thin,
the cool of evening wanes, its dryness lost,
and should the streams of gibbous moonlight fail,
no rapids will announce that desert sea,
no swelling flood will signal us to leave
our caves, to press our faces in the sails
of holy vessels, liquid in their creed,
to board and launch before the day can grieve.
Photo: flickr - Arnett Gill
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