From an indistinct arc
lamp-lit and far
from home
we watch
the underflow—
this slow river
brown as tea
muddled
with reflected stars.

Off the edge
above our heads
yellow moons
outrage the sky.

Split-skinned and soft
as a breast
a fig
finds a bird’s beak
I ate I ate
the bird sings
and the fig hangs
unevenly—sweet wound
crescent moon
so recently round
alive now
and hollow with hungry ants

Each dark wave
flush with clouds
of future-colored life
breaks the same
as any dark wave
on any other night.
Just this brief luminescence,
this pulse of biolight
betrays the host
of dangerous,
radiant specimens
that crowd the heart.