Three Women

The moon is a bullet wound
in the indifferent back of night,
a shawl thrown moodily
upon the earth.

The sun dances full-bellied
on the other side; it is a mock widow,
whore thief, stealing teeth from
the dead man, charming
a few coins before the fire.

And I foolishly imagine desert
bombs illuminating my night,
unable to deny the vice
of either lover — tonight,
in its peace, or tomorrow,
that already burns alive.