The torn passage from evening to dawn. The sun hasn’t set, just slipped away unstable, unreliable; look, the moon past full a week hanging like a bright spot of mold. Time scrubs it away and then it grows again. I slept and rent my clothes from me in dreaming, woke and put on my face again. The day’s a seamless whole stiched together from the fingernails that old man chewed off in the night. Catch your sleeve on them, caught whispering words in a language no one taught you.
The internet gods are kind tonight and I was able to get the characters for the poem. As charming as amateur calligraphy might be, it’s nice to see the poem in a font, too.