I HEAR THE HEAVY MOON approaching,
I hear shallow sleep walking,
my memory sharpens all knives
on the memory stone.

Five crows picked the poppyhead empty,
its crown takes a viper
and resting in the heart's hollow
the seeds carry sleep.

The little knives sing merrily and steeled:
We will slaughter the fat moon,
we will skin the insolent snake
and clean the sorrowful bowl.

I hear the heavy moon falling,
I hear the thin creature hiss,
five brave birds transplant
the heart in memory.