Southern Night

Come up, thou red thing. Come up, and be called a moon.

The mosquitoes are biting to-night Like memories.

Memories, northern memories, Bitter-stinging white world that bore us Subsiding into this night.

Call it moonrise This red anathema?

Rise, thou red thing, Unfold slowly upwards, blood-dark; Burst the night’s membrane of tranquil stars Finally.

Maculate The red Macula. Taormina.