Moon at Half Past Noon

Night shadows fell, the air turned salt, 
Where olive branches scraped the vault. 
The workman’s bench—splayed and skinned, 
Like a saint’s ribs left to the wind. 
Steel howled against the choir wall, 
Greed’s black psalm taking all. 
His last gouge, his blunt-edged knife, 
Gone with the moon’s cold appetite. 
One knot of breath (then soundless keep), 
Just shamisen dust where thieves don’t weep. 

At Matins’ hush, he dug the rows, 
Counting the vines the crows would claim. 
Then— 
A splintered door, a knot of dread, 
A wound he’d dressed when kings were dead. 
But by the roots no boot could tame, 
A small box glowed—too frail to name. 

Oh, reading stones— 
Time’s fractured tongue, 
You lick the blur 
From widow’s young. 
Blind hands took iron, But left the glass, 
So I might trace 
What outlives ash. 

He knelt (his knees like splintered yew), 
Cradled the box the rain once knew. 
Inside—not gold, but warped, clear wings, 
That turned the creek to whispered strings. 
The thief’s name? Rot. 
The tools? Long drowned. 
But these six ounces wore no crown. 

Strange— How thieves’ hands shake 
When shadows twist 
And glass won’t break. 
One lens rolled Like Judas’ mite, 
And in the grime, God winked his light. 

Oh, reading stones— 
Now churchyard sage, 
You’ll outlive rage 
And rust’s blind wage. 
When my eyes fail, I’ll plant you where 
The next lost thief 
Might kneel in air.