the moon is a sickle
cutting the strings of stars
so they drop out of the sky
I catch them on my tongue
and they dissolve
like flakes of sugar
the doctor said one would
paint the sky black
and I’d forget his face
I swallow two tonight
maybe I can forget
my name, too
tomorrow the moon wanes
the scythe sharpened
to cut away orion’s belt
the jewels will drop
from his buckle to my mouth
one two three
and I won’t awake
to know the new moon
or see the others fall