The moon’s fingernail
scrapes a far away gazer’s
thoughts, breaking open
her mind, freeing a thousand
love songs stoked with lunar dust.
East-blowing storms coil
above night’s descending
horizon. Stars pop
from showering brushstrokes
across blue lingering breath.
I pledge to read each
day’s oncoming slaughter
as a penniless
dark spur opening beneath
a cataclysm of daisies.
As the final gasp
of a humid day wheezes
into dusk, a breeze
tickles with its feather tongue,
hinting at evening’s reprieve.
Amy Nawrocki 