The Moon is haloed, seven coloured rings
that hang on heaven’s hatstand, snagged on hooks
suspended in the sky; and everything
is draped in linen sheets like ghostly books
forgotten on a ghostly bed and made
by careless hands. They say that sheets when dried
by full moonlight will glow their whitest shade,
reflected silver echoed in their sides.

The slightest breeze will push the blanket south
and bring the tree line sharply into view.
Then, clouds within my lungs escape my mouth
like shades, their icy fingers pushing through
my chest, reminding me of other such
cold nights, your warmth, the fire in your touch.

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