Impersonation with moon
Richard Weaver

In the south ward the moon hangs
like a suicide from the rafters.
Round bodies are fixed like stars
to their beds. No one moves
to cut it down, or would,
except the man who never sleeps
and fears his eyes are razors.

Sleep is the half-moon he stands before,
his skin translucent. His scars
glowing like the eyes
of subterraneous fish. It was not always
so easy, and never this close, to strike
back at. To hold the steel bars
thin as wrists. It was never so hard
that a hand couldn’t touch.

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