the bone moon rules
over the season of bones
a silver sickle reaping
a harvest of stars
discarded dentures
in a crescent grin
white lane markers
at Dead Man’s Curve
dirge on a piano
with no black keys
a cup that shattered
leaving just the rim
your cup shattered just
when it filled to the brim—
so tune your piano
to a dirgelike key
mark my words, life
will always throw you a curve
discard you, disappear
with a Cheshire grin
leave you sick, weeping
that you’ll never be a star
when the bone moon rules
the season of bones
Books Available
Dervish Lions
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside
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