In the witching moment
the moon slow burns in jealousy
singes night's robe
and upon the raw and savage opening
scrubs her pale skin
into a blood-orange scab.

Her acidic juice oozes.
Her wound pulsates.
Incensed in her captivity
she pulls the tides
lets loose the waves,
howling madness
at desolation rock,
its pinnacle a crooked sword piercing
a slow tear on the morning star.