threadbare the stars

The stars are making noise


While a motionless moon

        Lays flat across the arms

        Of night

Her glyphs left in-situ

A wild thing in oviform

Flying in the flogging

Of daylight

Pallid in the paucity

Of Star birth, they’re

Members of a tribe

Known only by the Old Ones

The lines and hashes of kindness

        borne of them

        but for the languid

elements of reminiscence and

a threadbare patience

            left alone in a sanguine sky

© K. James Ribble

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