Cinnamon Moon Poem by James McLain

On the tower off it there they hang.
Beneath it mouthing nothing all.
The sea of it, the month of it.
I shake when foam comes night, I share.

The wave the cool full river where it banks.
It ripples there across the night it transfers.
The house above the sky as it fills up.
Inside the mat, illuminates her the face of.

Of the foggy silk.
In tears I peak across the sky.
To say.
Silence comes again I rest between.

And of the stars which do not ever die.
I ask my turn not yet,
then when that if it ever drifts away.

Spreading with the garden the make up.
And looking back to where I am.
One old pine box and from the cinnamon moon.
From which the bark the tree of which.