Expect an accordion wind from the south-
south west tonight. It will fold stars

between the gills of water in your fountain.
Stars are breathable and stars are also

inaccessible currency. Sometime after nine PM,
you arrive at an epiphany as the epiphany

arrives at you: The moon is a large nose.
“Those aren’t craters, they’re nostrils,”

you’ll whisper sometime after sometime after
nine PM. Before midnight, expect the neighbor’s cat,

Sue Ellen, to walk the spine of your fence
like a marble rolling up an incline.

The moon can smell everything you’re doing,
so be as imprecise as possible.

 

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Celeste Rose Wood’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Nimrod, River River, and Barking Sycamores. As a hermit, i.e. agoraphobic, she thinks it sucks that many people buy into capitalism’s opinion of “disability entitlement” as dirty words. Her dreams are of things like necromancy, mermaids, and healthcare for everyone.