Astarte's Moon.

   It wasn't the fall of civilization 
   that made me almost trip 
   not the storm the buds of spring 
   had just wheeled in on 
   that left me dripping 
   in a crease of time 
   It wasn't May wine made me drunk 
   and drove me like a shopping cart 
   to the escarpment 
 
   It was the inside of me 
   an egg not yet set 
   and the brush of death's cat 
   as I swooned on the levee 
   and felt it: 
 
   Long ago I had drowned 
   by the prop roots 
   of the nailed up tree 
   in that ink, 
   composed hell 
 
   Turned and faced your brightness 
   and