112
The Moon Sees Me Lysbeth Em Benkert The white flag of Oreo’s tail glows
When we turn the corner,
like a beacon as we walk our circle
the moon shines bright enough
around the neighborhood.
to cast shadows low under the trees. She pursues us past the two startled oak trees
I’ve timed it right.
and the fire hydrant.
The buzzing streetlamp,
She makes soft edges turn sharp.
the dog’s black nails against the asphalt,
She’s serious.
and the tv tube chords of my tinnitus,
She doesn’t fuck about with indeterminate numbers.
bounce against the bone white moon.
She wants pure integers, because she rounds things up.
We’re in between— half nullifying melodies
When we end where we began
and two-thirds emplasticity,
I get my poop in a group and into the trash.
pulling together dreamscape theologies
The dog and the rearranged fractals in my head
and pre-dawn potential.
go into the house. The moon stays outside—
Why do I not wear hiking boots?
tomorrow it’s fractions
What did I do with Peterson’s Field Guide?
I’ll need to pay attention.
Surely I need something to make sense of the flashlight, the housekey, and the Kleenex in my pockets.
