Corn Moon

It sets in the black. Then dawn.
Do your worst, you’ll do your best.

There is night and day. It is
Light, nor it is time, an hour,

A pause, a page. I don’t write
On a page. Moons write on night.

These words—the, is, an, out. The
Day turns on junked words like these.

Its leaves—my dark files the things.
Wells are traps, you said to me.

I heard you well the first time.
You meant to not talk with me.

You claimed to talk with a word.
I am that word. That was me,

Your knot, your death, your ghost’s flesh.
Please don’t try to tell me love

Is to talk of these. I can’t.
I’m like an oak. I can’t be

Both, the term you used to mean
Seeds glanced from moons shook the leaves.