The Swaying Cradle Poem by Leon Moon

he spoke to me
as his father did
minus the sincerity,
it is no fault of his
for I know him well
too well
to be captured by word
and any promise
out of hand.

I monitor
his interactions with animals
a particular inquisitiveness
that alienates my stature
the expansive eye
of the particular

short candles
fan the space of our home
oncomings of death
that we hold
as we handle
one sided forgetfulness
sinking the fable
soup for the ladle
for which tomorrow spares no time

and rituals of recoil
truth must conceal
in the order of man
in order for man
to speak with honesty.

drills and stairwells
stifle the vividness
of dreams,
clots motorways bleed
enhance stillnesses
to see one type of black
in blackness,
the architecture exposed
on tires ripping tarmac off roads

as the double is double
the wind's pace
is never loyal
only to scars
that scorch the baby's face.

the exchange of trouble
and art for art
buried in the political
is but rubble,
spare change
for a moat's current sea,
chopped peaks form the deep
our very own wishing well
round our very own castle

on grass, glass glares green
mirrors measure
what is not seen,
the fortune of a father
earns his right not to breathe.

the sequel
begets no credit.