CONSORT

The moon is in a fever.
It wants to be the sun,
shatters its mirror

picking through the glass
for gold. No one
is deceived.

Wind wraps the cooling sovereign
discreetly in its folds,
veiling a diadem. Eyelid,

bracelet, garter belt.
Waistband, anklet, cuticle.
Milk-rimmed breast.

Now coal. There is not so much
as a silver thread
to sew the bay a coastline.

Please note: this poem has been edited since its original, published version.