honeydunce

Your face,
a dagger smacking
back moonlight.
Grin made of molasses
spreading out the center.

It is here,
tucked in the lesser referenced corners
of rotating clock,
where every suspended disbelief drops,
lunar light finding your crooked tooth
to sparkle like diamond,
to render all crickets silent and blinded,
to disorient blades of grass left bent
in the imprint of your body.

Never you mind, paper plate sun,
yolk below the mountain uncracked–
celestial salt in clumps of punctuation around
head. Sleep is not for us.