Pavilion

On the Pavilion

as the warm night nears,

flecks of sand scatter

into the liquid soil and slivers of

crested scales slip into a silver

stillness.

The Moon

unveils its marred face

and falls,

softly, as

the black

crane unfurls its wings

before the ripe sun of Autumn.

Now long passed in the sky, its

golden figure has laid down to

rest—briefly—

between beds of headless stalks

and is happy, at this,

eyelids shut. Hush, world;

its scales

were peeled from its skin

and punctured through. Do not

cleanse yourself in its tears: only gaze

up at the torn cloth of night, where

the Moon’s single eye

peers, prying.

It drinks the soil within its veil of dust

and rises, here, in the Pavilion,

cold as the crane

in Autumn’s lingering shadow.