The moon rises over one, two, three electric wires.
Before she clears them, the lines score her belly
like a barcode. They stop for nothing, the taut wires,
pierce the scooped-out crowns of trees, crooked lyres
no bright god strums. Hear the generators thrum.
My guy paced a fitful line, a panicked cardiogram.
I followed him in manic ecstasy. The doctors wired
his head to tame the rage. He was too tired to begin again.
I got strung out on a gorgeous broken lyre.
Now I’m sane again, a moon back in her cage.
