squinting through setting-sun & shotgun talk,
Beppo, Seb & Vito love me enough
to drink my backwash on a regular basis.
we share at least 50% of our genes anyway,
chased down with il vino della casa, unearthed from the cellar.
I consider how this has to count for something,
should be enough, while out the window of the old ford
my hand becomes a hawk scouring its wings
through a wind of fine muscle & bone.
at dusk, our empty moon is low along the coast
& nearing the teapot in the constellation Sagittarius
as we travel eastward against the stars.
each night this week the moon has waned in cosmic reverie,
the houses drawing closer to the trees in a sooty light
that kept the very thought of us alive.
now we are four night birds falling into each other,
spilling wine on cracked leather seats & saying
che minchia! to every bump & curve in the road
out of town. we watch each silhouette giving in
to the no-light. the earth itself spewing grit & salt,
grinding on its dark axis, seemingly alone.
having always moved, our bodies can't recall
why we spin this way or who first named the blank moon
New, believing with enough faith for all
that the moon was not lost or gone forever,
not a greatly missed & missing O, but
an unlit promise: a there-not-there still full.