On a crescent

Tongue-ing

Here,
I teach the moon how black-
toothed girls bend the wind.
The air as an accomplice,
I lick, lick, lick the milk
shapeshifted from blood.
As everything swings
from body to dust
and then to wind, I lick
the trail the night leaves,
the leaves stained by light
Quiet-ly, blindly,
Here.

LARDO