Tired mountains and gold lake-light
finish up our return. The children yawn.
The travellers falter in the ash town
watching the breezeless staring.
Moments pass like beetles,
each of us a faceless book.
That something precise might burn
and wake into a bowl of eyes
watching is courting stars.
Low field moons, like old coins
loop the months, eating film,
eating dreams among bald trees.