Moonlight is braille,
pointed beams patterned for
hands with eyes.
On the prairie,
the hellbent train pierces the cool,
callous night like a needlegun.
The town will loop the gold
through in the morning.
Hands clasped as though to pray,
I cannot read that foreign,
bright light writing
on my cool, white face.
My hands are blind.
But the dark slips into my
ears like a rumor,
the utter loss that is my birthright.
This poem will be revised.
Miniature Moon 