I play a game with the moon. Like the game where you say a word over and over until it loses its meaning, I look at the rising moon again and again until it too becomes nonsense. A thing that hangs there in space, unattached to this world. Painted on a canvas sky, it would make more sense, but a floating rock? And when I remember that we too are hanging rock, the game is over.
By Phillip Barron
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Phillip Barron edits the online journal OccuPoetry, and his poems appear or are forthcoming in Main Street Rag and Counterexample Poetics among other journals. His first book, The Outspokin’ Cyclist, was published in 2011. Currently, he lives in Davis, California where he works in the digital humanities at the University of California.
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