It was that time of year;
the moon a fingertip
pushed through cardboard,
up to our ankles
in poems about leaves.

Trees, wroots spreading into centuries,
branches ending in upturned kippers,
slapping down on their fellows
like Yugoslavs in downtown Detroit.

like pissing the bed awake,
left holding a ladder in the desert,
a sideway's grin from the Cheshire Cat
shows the moon has become a key text.

©Joe Fearn