Through the long death of the moon, we drank her light
As slowly as snow-melt, bearing her funeral
Against the turn of the earth by nights like flares
As she fell westward, trailing a torn shroud
Across the mountains, over the ashen water.

Our feet washed pale as shell, we faltered
After her, naming all she could answer,
But she turned her cold, lopsided face
Farther away than we could follow.

She shrank to half a skull,
Sinking as if to sleep
At the salt edge of her grave.

Then her white knife,
Her closing eyelid.

Her darkness.