Life's a full moon on Monday -
all that cold, hard light
bright in the face, filling the eyes
with circles, dunes of grey.

Can you take it away,
the staring face that stares
you down the windowsill
of logic's upper crust

diminishing in rust that looks like
frost in moonlight.  So take a
knife and scrape the rime
off the sill,

you're too ill inside to be
round and whole again, uncovered,
waxing, waning, thin and fat
alternately - a woman, a baby?

Go where?  The answer to such
shafts of brilliant white
alighting on the floor, too
cold, too chill, to ask for more.
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