Ouroboros and Back Again

Answering Salamun on the Question of the Moon

shadows flog
this dead
riddle,
flit eternal
replayings,

pay
back & forth
indentured play
until, enchanted,
we drop,
kneebound transcendentals

stretch & shattered
clues
all on tall
logical as oscillations,
back on our wobbly knees,
pair of Docs on our feet;
earth-wet prayered hands
now fists

up at heaven
— blood weathered even—
punching this goddamned sky

until dented

silent all night
with this unnamed battle

only to dawn on us then

dissipate unprayered
but shadowed

full

where
the
moon
should
be.