Gather

there are words for things,

somethings, that in their coarse separation, like water, become a substance separate from the particle of dust that uplifts her or makes waves or storms. O when do we change from one whole matter of fact to a void whose absence is galaxies, A life up here. Laugh like the broken sounds of a shofar. Calling the world, the four corners to come. Bride, each his own echo, a ruffle in a dress that is coming off and being embroidered and the embroidery peels her skin and is only decadence. A decision to love you is made. Turn around and see her face, Yours.

Well, maybe for a moment a moon could write something.
There are words for things.