Certainly I’ve been here before

where the moon breaks up like a carrier wave
among rockpools and spume,

but tonight the static
does not irritate,

adding dark commas,
a semi-colon’s pause;

the moon’s ashen
apostrophe of itself:

loss as punctuation, fracture
as rhythmic device

shuffling the constant wind
which rattles the lanyards of your bones,

tempting even
the furled sails of your heart

to rise, be snapping taut,
drum-hard, driving the craft on

to deeps where the moon
is received unbroken, ecstatic.