Conjunction

Sawing wood in the dark,
my arm swings to a tribal rhythm.
The rasp of the blade is a hypnotic chant and
the headtorch brushes shadows back and forth as
I sway to the ebb and flow of force.

Incense of sap and sawdust rises
to mingle with the pillars of my breath.

Behind me, the moon is a thin, wry smile.
Two planets shine like silver dimples
on her cheeks.

(c) A McN