D.J. Parris


to myself, you fold
laundry and don’t look

just before pulling
apart sheers and drapes.
Not directly above
nor on the horizon just
horizontally justified
brilliant sliver what
cups a moon named
of our blood. Our
star glows through
our edge; light red
the light would slip
away. I continued
folding. Our perigean/
sole satellite hangs.
In the moment when
light seemed about
to end, shadow reversed
course. All the laws
of planetary motion
halted/I folded laundry.
(can shitjust change?)
Anything was possible.
Then- no. Cloud passes.