a half moon hangs over head like it were stolen from a
Van Gogh painting and accidentally dropped in the sky
and the trees in this forest were borrowed from a
Rilke poem with the intentions of never
returning them
crickets talk in their invisible vocabulary, while
lightening bugs speak in their luminous vernacular
mosquitoes have their own gospel
all their mosquito wings are making
noises like tiny Howitzer guns
shooting praises to the god that provides sweet
sacramental wine of flesh
everything alive seems to be making
a pilgrimage toward various impossibilities
and here I am
walking the night with Saint Francis watching over me
like the lost animal I’ve become