The ghost moon rakes my shoulder
Then he flies away to some lover
An Asian ocean or a not so great lake
in a country where everyone is kin
Where everyone knows all the phases of the moon
They smoke pipes at night
The smoke rises up to make the moon grow
That is how they always keep up with it so well
They don’t know I stare up at their waxing gibbous through bulletholes
They wouldn’t understand my acceptance of the ghost moon
Popping in and out of my afternoons
With every breath they make it smaller
I’m looking back over my shoulder to a place between the pines
Where I saw it sometime ago
I don’t know when
wherearetheheros 
I love the mystery level to this and the “rakes my shoulder”. Thank you!
it smarts 😉
thanks Debbie
I was happily imagining rural China under a huge moon, there, and then you changed tack to something rather more sinister – lovely!
oh i do like a “lovely”
there is this song that says
“theres a ghost of a moon in the afternoon
bullet holes in the mailbox
keyholes in my mind”
i just love that “ghost of a moon”
thanks so much bluebee
Is the moon crying out for your attention — and ours? …”where everyone is kin…” they know how to celebrate the moon. And “waxing gibbous” is one of my favorite phrases that I don’t really understand.
It has the undivided attention of only a few.
In this country we have apps to tell us where it is and what phase it is in.
The old folks new the where and what of it all the time.
It just pops up at random in my life and sometimes I look at my app 🙂
thanks Monica