Song for the Black Moon

Surrounded by dying, death, and dementia you
still set the coffee up: black roasted beans give
a smell of normality. Another dawn breaks new
to wind chill choke the rose-fingered will to live.

Who the fuck knows? Dinner about a lover spurned
is tender and not right but kofta spiced right amuses
his tongue, distracts an opiated sordid story earned
by drug fueled tales of blackly hid nostalgic abuses.

Life goes on. Salt-crusted cars in a parking lot, muted
colors in a winter palimpsest. Wiper fluid perks alert
and then subsides into normality. Tight pixels booted
into view: a half-full bucket with a joyed white squirt.

It's the month of the black moon: inside, gray stairwell
landings are already cracked sole outside a tolling bell.