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.
Between deep cornfields grasping in tandem the gone sun, and power-lines sloping to hold the weight of twilight—waxing gibbous moon.
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.)
heat!