Panic at Nightfall

I taste the air it is not syrup
no sweet flavour
the reminiscence of Christmas
the silver white magnesium moon burns
reflecting like a quarrelling whore
white with fear
round and pregnant




She the moon has
the cracked face of a porcelain doll
held over a waxed table
dropped like a quick date
a falling shadow
drunken tramp
sleeps on the ground
this coverlet of black
hugs the bed a wild bear.