Skip to content

Bruce A. Jacobs- Ⅱ





Come to me, moon:

your fat sky

shot full of stars

and you, circling white ember,

swinging ripe light at us

as if it’s free.


Moon, come to me.

I’m a day and a dollar short

of your dangled display,

locked out of tonight by glass.

I’m a fossil in ice,

a windowed loser.

Call it weakness,

a frozen worm.

Call it bad luck,

a kiss trapped in frost –


But come to me, moon,

breach me, make an

open crescent

of my white skull.

Break into me

with hammered light,

blind me, outwit me,

pull my flesh past

this room of crystal and ether,

this packed atmosphere

I cannot inhale –


Come to me. This is

war and I want to

lose to the universe,

lose to the nuclear bonfire

of space, this place

shot full of stars

where I hover


rubbing my hands

in moonlight

like wet kindling

in flame.