further from the edge
this morning in the
pantry our hearts were
bread stale
and our eyes
were not wide opened
as they used to be.

facing the sunrise window
moon wheels revolved on your
street market clock.

no longer counting red
tides or blue
when you'd slam the door a
second time to be heard
and walk into a cloud of fire
to punt and stir the flame.

you understand
in a language built of
deadened monosyllables
gracelessly
swallowed
down
that our eyes are
not wide opened
as they used to be.


Mia Moore