Each Full Moon Poem by James McLain

Above each tower - open Independent,
each new mystery of this the month.
It is classified at one/\two degree angles.
Will you not then, look again, it is there.
It makes the gold disperse it does not
have the composure of cold silver rays.
Whom, 'crosses over the staggered waves
cool rivers, equal each mouth,
flowing once again like you will to, into the good night,
reaching down, touching the whispering faces,
up in the house on the mountains edge
which is at night kept full of they like us, looking up.
Revealing, 'with it is, off the mat,
it illuminates the gauze of white creamy silk,
moon turns slowly across, singing abundantly.
Peaks of the sky, silence, when full:
Between the thin stars,
like old scars they stand, do not die yet, off into you that all drift.
Are they not like you,
spread within the garden, where I am old and Grey
and the pine, mixed with the cinnamon bark… of which.
Everything, most of all lights/write and the light/write
moon settles down for the night, smiles directly!

l.p.