Feral Phases of the Moon

There has been a full moon all week long.
Strangers come to my doorstep asking for a ride into town.
  The clouds weep and the tears pour out in rivers over the earth, far too saturated to bear more.
A friend wrecks his car in a field, and I was right there.  Knowing nothing better.  Not knowing anything was in the air.
His black core, a coal amongst the bristled gold of the corn stalk field.
There was a cross-dresser just beyond in the woods.  The eyes perfect circles and the pupils as small as drops of ink.  Surrounded by milky flesh and bobbed hair.
Staring straight ahead, staying away from me altogether.
I am wading through the wind that manages its way through everything.  I heard lies that were told to me, exhumed suspicions I’d once buried.  The moons phase seems never to end.  The orbit is bent out of shape.

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