warm moon

try to predict a meteor falling.
a dinosaur going extinct
after millions upon millions
of years on an earth.

there is only yellow prediction-
no attempt to call out
past clocks but fear; the loss
of the womb. you want
to know, with your eyes,
that you'll come back to it.
like two, mother and father cinched together.
forget mouths, half-ready
with curled lips that don't lead to any
nowhere. there is no nowhere.
we fear that there is no joy if
we cannot make it predictable.
forget that even the warm half-
moon is still whole.
give the pupils in our eyes
bigger, further back bodies,
the more of our children we see.
we look up at the sky and we fear it.
we cry. sweat. forget to breathe. forget even
the cinched smiles inside us. the clock
when it rests between tickings.