This Moon and Bone

I know this bone
a white handhold
lost in
a black, tar sea.

The full moon
swims against
the night water-
I curl my fingers
through it
and it breaks.

I put my hand
around the moon-
the whole one that
swims against
the sky
and
imagine
its smooth, orb
weight – a pebble
in my palm.

I don’t dare
touch the bone-
the bone so close
I can smell it.

If I curled
my hand
around its
death white
grip

would it break
apart or
would I?

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