The eaten moon is fattening Again. White robed priests pray aloud. The palest pigeons hide from Popes. We aim to die like foolish soldiers And rise naked round the churches Copying the faded frescoes That predicted how this goes. A eucharistic moon is falling Into our mouths fallen open. I’m taking notes and shopping, Noting how the pale moon’s growing. Can we talk without mentioning That the infinite capacity Of prisons is a miracle, That bullets better made than ever Deliver puzzling parables? I’m buying eggs and planning routes Out of here; the jets are chalking Shaky lines above the city. The moon’s forsaken colour. The blue bed’s made for us tonight, Our window’s open to the moonlight, Our room’s a basin For its pale pooling liquid light. Pigeons bundle out there cooing Some ancient, wordless song. Old priests lift their hands to this, The broken columns of the empire, The resurrection of the enemies, The prisoners, the armies—armies of them Lost and standing. The eaten moon returns again As though death will never really happen, The gods will see to that. The sleepy gardens, fallen trees, The automatic gates and entry fees are here to stay.
Eaten Moon at Easter