owls swell with the darkening pink of some moon
like grass I plow forth claws into mud, something
for the heart to slip against
all day, I sulk; maggot-pale and too weary
for my own, sad writhing – is it always this way?
stars, bony sisters, I see you, undressing
the dew where I redden and sigh, waiting
for answers; yet, might I ripen, become more the
gloom from which all things have fallen
Haley Wooning lives in California where she writes poetry. She has one book, Mothmouth, published by Spuyten Duyvil.