The moon was full;
imperfect.
In movement
on an empty trail.
Orange lights,
amassed in confinement.
Outside the window,
there was panic
and unsung stars;
there were bogus revellers
in their rolled-up tanks.
The mess of the midnight;
the sound of the bonfires;
the graceless jokes;
the despised love-making.
Solely noise.

The moon was full;
in purple.

-S

Toronto, Nov. 15, 2020