If Moon Pressed

If moon pressed the flower of print

clouds would race the winds

and frowning shadows glide in their

unfamiliar flow

so currents of nightfall

compress and bellow at storms

dressed in the slats and

slights of horizons angled flight

lives a cast of languid glow

a task of orbiting stars and heavens

whilst dragging the shameless sun

across the terrestrial shadow lonely

in its grey shroud