Waiting for the moon’s song, the sky’s paint. There are no longer any spectators. Waiting for the book the crickets compose each night, which is never printed. I have a red arrow that forms a circle. Waiting for the hand that comes out of time into life and adoration. And then these eyes emit their perfect amplitudes of celestial incursion. I am waiting inside the secret music of a language forgotten. Far away, a creature none have seen is singing. Waiting like mercurial sand on the night’s cheek. I trust this tide will carry the word.