Full moons tap out pure time, blow kisses
onto the earth, prod us to perish thoughts
that tack us to man-made boards where we
wait for our lines to be drawn. Drifting above
us, the cosmos knows us. Neighbouring stars
cluster like older gardens, from the days we
weeded by hand the sedatives, and steeped
night flowers, and drank all the docks, and
danced with barer feet. A home, above the
veil of carbon, drumming like a heartbeat,
unearthing the bones of our older selves.