Clipped

When he takes my hand,
i remember we're not meant to fly,
astound or rewind (our) clockwork orange;

the world was already on its knees,
dull with marionette lies,
gypsy jigs pounding coins on pavement,
only half alive, from who knows where.

the sky was snuck a forgery,
with moons coaxed from paste;
mercy disbanded and blank contracts
filled with something else.

I hug him and keep wishing,
I cut a little piece of reflection
Gently where it frayed from Night;
My eyes sting with salt.

Perhaps the moonlight would not fall,
Swell into its etched tattoo-
That changing mask upon the sea-
If we would just give it all away.