And then it was just us—
you, me, Franz Schubert,
Supermoon—on the bus,

at the end of the day,
riding down the croup
of a great sunlit horse.

We parked in a dirt loop
under a tall tree, with
Supermoon. Two birds

made change in the dark.
The tree was shaped like
a supermark. A crow spoke,

bomfire, bomfire. Fire.
Loneliness grew in me
like a child’s black coin,

into the wavering tree
you see in a commercial
for a bank. Thank you.

Supermoon was smoking
in a cloud. The dream was
uxorious and corrective.

Come out, my moon…
I can’t see you. I’m hiding
beneath the fetlock of

an enormous horse.