Going to Bed with the Moon

Startled by a moon-scuffed sky,

I lean my head to the window —

caught on a shredding of cloud,

its wounded twist and drift —

stand like the badger

stitched on my Japanese silk,

snout raised to the stars,

belly floodlit

until the moon desists

from taunting our trees,

unleaved, sky high.

Moon — wan as an egg,

shadows my heels up the stairs,

climbs the folds of my sheets

Jenny Hockey Poetry