Maybe you can’t carry the moon,

capture it like you do so many

fading sunsets, place them in your

pocket with cloudy bits dryer lint,

prod them across your monitor.

Maybe moonglow is the broken

hourglass you cup with greedy hands,

scrambling to capture the grains of sand

under Chronos’ unyielding gaze.

Or it’s the tide that throws them back,

crushed to rocks beneath trembling rush

until they beach and catch their breath.

4 thoughts on “Transfiguration

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