On the Edge

A blade in the bed of a child 
will slice up nightmare 
into simpler hungers.

But a knife is a dangerous gift 
girl brave enough to be crazy 
you may never read this poem again 
so commit it   like sin
or a promise   to the place
where poetry arms your beauty
with a hundred knives
some mined in the hills above Whydah 
for a good looking Creek
on the run.

The rhythms of your long body 
do not yet move in my blood 
but the first full moon of this year 
is a void of course moon 
I dream   I am precious rock 
touching   the edge of you 
that needs
the moon's loving.