| Current Issue | About CHO | Editorial Staff & Guidelines | Submissions | Articles | Archives | Search |
April 2016, vol 12 no 1

| Contents This Issue | Next Haibun |

Jonathan McKeown


Beneath the gypsy moon,
all things look at her
but she cannot see them.
~ Federico Garcia Lorca

We are housed, now. Sheltered from stars, the daystar and gypsy moon. If we run, we run between houses and dream, if we dream, senseless dreams of green and the silver moon. Even she is lost for a time in the fluorescence of a thousand little street-lighting moons. But no-one walks there; not even the lights that light our rooms remind. We dug in; now our tunnelling is ramified to a thousand radical, a thousand virtual, a thousand vicarious dreams no angelic beings disturb. If we go out it is into our tree with a thousand branches; but we do not ascend, we do not leave the ancient cavern. Language too keeps us from seeing – but look at her: green flesh, hair of green, with eyes of cold silver …

below our balcony
a thousand silver moons
in the money tree