The moon’s
a real Lady MacBeth
tonight
dashing about the sky
as if it were her own
private theatre of heartbreak.
trailing her unbuttoned
dress of clouds
behind her.
“Out...out damn spot! ”
“Out...out...damn spot! ”
the trees repeat
like a Greek chorus
as the wind
scatters hysterically her hair
and she throws herself
off a battlement of cloud
to the east
the new day
bloody with beginning
tomorrow
