A backroad tanka
for last night’s moon
Between deep cornfields grasping in tandem the gone sun, and power-lines sloping to hold the weight of twilight—waxing gibbous moon.
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Between deep cornfields grasping in tandem the gone sun, and power-lines sloping to hold the weight of twilight—waxing gibbous moon.
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How do you grasp “the gone”?
How does sloping hold weight?
Love the tensions this poem creates.
(And also that you included “waxing gibbous” which is fun to say.)