Peddling Moonlight

Free verse symbolist poetry

If I were a petal,
I’d peddle stones
to a flower whose
bones—like yours—belittle
the ache in my chest.

Can you feel it?

A frantic
flutter of bees
on the wind;
that ache would
sting all senses.

I’d collapse my spine
to that protruding ache,
enter the garden’s
altar, and sink
beneath the creeping
grass.

How about now?

My blistered fingertips
would trace lives
against the stump
of that old tree—
in backyard lullabies.

All in service
to that growing ache
that sits on a
rigid throne—made of glass,
pouring moonlight into
bottomless
cups.

                         Feeding 

                  on 

       itself. 

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