Tonight: full moon, a super-moon,
and I’m pulled, my tides are turning,
rolling, slow as a basking whale.
Something stirs, something nuclear.
Here is writing in the sand,
titanium sandscript, black ink
running. It comes, is covered, goes,
eases itself like a ghost
into new meanings. I touch it,
taste its dark blood, turn, turn.
Chromatography. Music on
a rotating drum. The writing
on the wall.