Ahead New Moon, Raising Falsehoods Poem by Mark Heathcote

Her face is a velum of smiles
that thrums across open water
and glistens as a moon beguiles
charming snake's the world over.

And had he not kneaded-straw
with clay to see it build
a house of the flesh, a jackdaw.
Her groanings might not have trilled.

Because time doesn't summon-
all toward that conclusion at the end:
Quickly enough, all are crestfallen.
Predawn, that sun's godsend.

In puzzlement, I'll set-this-one-free
a sloth into own brushwood-
loins to climb that devil tree.
Ahead new moon, raising falsehoods.