Half-Sestina: Stick Bearing Face

The moon glows like a honky-tonk, bearing
the marks of her experience on her face,
hobbling on an invisible walking stick.

You can stir the moon with an olive on a stick,
soaked in juniper, sloe, proof-bearing
glare of her pocked, pitted face,

you lying level, back against the face
of some mound on the edge of town. Your head sticks
in the mud, its dead weight force-bearing.

Now the moon’s maidens come, bearing their faces in their hands on sticks. 

Late spring/summer 2016