The uncut lunar

[leftover_curry]

.

I woke held by moss and tentacles as
they laid the moon for autopsy;
unpitted her eyes
dressed her in the wild
of hunt

They Death-masked us,
removed my lungs;
I forgot to breathe,
but held the shine of light
like an oxygen mask

Eyeless, but not blind, I saw the shapes and noises of hurt;
lungless, I could taste the memory of air

As we slowly faded the difference between mourning and morning
was simply the letter 'you'

Here is the final cut,
St. Francis Ford Coppola genuflecting in the abbatoir

The whimpering moon whispers
"We are an eclipse"

"Soular"

I gasp

.