New Moon

New Moon

Thomas Zimmerman

Black lotus in an overturned carafe
of stars, grim Hecate descends, and in
their graves the denizens begin to spin

like dervishes. You hear but cannot see
the neighbors’ belled barn-cat. Your hot breath’s like
a bit that cuts your thought, and there’s no other

way to say it—you feel horsey. Murmurs
rise like specters through the dull green mist,
there at the crossroad hedge. The grass curls black

wherever her feet tread. Her left hand holds
a goblet, your hand’s in her right. A dog
somewhere barks three times, sharp, and something in

you hammers like the making of a blade.
She’s cut the lights but never touched the switch.
Your trembling fingers check: the bulb’s still hot.

Thomas Zimmerman

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