her confinement is

wrinklin'

as kin to the pine as water

breathing in the fog

and is bobbing

up the falling moon

who's already 

past her full

and is pulling an edge

of her rented hem 

of mist and film a borrowed

lace of cloud and soon

she'll be new

and in the very least decreased

and deceased

for the days and time

it takes to rise

again shy and shyer still

with the light 

edging off, the least common

-place face ever

the change and the station

-master's sold out

knowing there's no

predicting even with all

the formula's accuracy: 

the face seeing

a face

takes it

in as them

-selves

and makes a chemistry

that they say's stopped

in the bottle of her body:

what precaution mustered

for remaining corked

or what all prediction in

the window and her light cast

on the cruel floor and the curling

foot smudging 

into it and though there's no

warmth and though slowing

she's going

like a moody boat he's holding

in the cove

and the day's early

and earnest.  still

nothing touches her 

wound as honest

or as shy

or as unpredictable

as this moon: through

atmosphere through

hemisphere through

all sphere's glass and cracks

and spread squarely:

a constant stocking

taking no pain 

save excruciating

to put on.