New moon velvet hugs the old woman’s skin.
The night is sufficiently warm: naked she glides
her form knows where the furniture is
through luscious darkness.
The soles of her feet track
the edges of mats, carpet, wood,
to the loo, and back to bed
like a seed of desire
conversing with the hidden moon.
Her own mind and body are in hiding
from harsh humanity, who habitually blot,
delete the night with brute power.
How can they see a poem?
How deeply, darkly it is planted, by the moon,
into the very womb
of time.
– Silke Heiss 9th May 2024
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