Bleed, Sing, Listen

A woman's wound
bleeds at moon time.
Man, if he is lucky,
has a wound as well,
where skull bones never
quite fused into a wall
against the night,
a soft spot distances
collapse into
with all their fallen
spheres of fire,
blue-finned comets,
red dwarfs, other worlds,
globes of desire.
He drinks stars,
then sings them.
She listens.