Something strong moves there, dark, containing whatever opens the moon slowly like a tractor through cows. Now it moves, obscure within a coat, misusing its shadow, a little last night left in its pockets, knowing something of the sun could go right through like light through a jellied eye.
Size is trapped in the lies of distance.
The moon smiles out of the other corner of its mouth when the dark passes. Somewhere in Africa countries change names as the shape passes over with a clanging of pans. Flash in the Dark Dark is nothing they say. Still, it eats away the moon. I can be in the sun with some in my pockets like blind eyes, and take breath , touch it to the dark in the pockets of lung.