Rained from the moon
glittery, silvery manna
melts all but
the lighted windows
of the houses.
Within, the surefire apparatus is silent.
Milk curdles on a sill.
A face channels its one rigid expression.
Perfect poison grips
the snake’s fangs
and sharp nails
rip this year’s flesh.
Love –
that still reverberating duplicity of spring –
sprouts dandelions instead.
And in the night’s wound,
a radio evokes with song –
salvages what lies
have spurred the eyes to reason.
The Neglected Ratio 