Sunday Night Among The Shards

The faithful Moon kneels down to pray.
A splintering mile of juts and shards,
Of stealthy spears and slithery glass
In ambush lies – sinister as greed.

And as, serene, she drops her head
The poisoned peaks of bladed scrapers
Thrust their readied javelins hence
And pierce her martyred pupil blind.

Bleeding throbs of the faithful Moon
Upon the metal canopy douse;
Feeding down the glassy sheen
Her blood white, her white tears.

The Lighthouse

A tragedy:
He stared from his tower of light,
Tasting salt.
When I look at the world
I see only the numbers, equations,
Formulae holding it together.
A marker-pen:
He painted them – no –

Daubed them on the glass
As the waves broke like
Vulnerable wings, beyond,
Unseen to him.
Pitiful symbols
Of a modern anti-creed.