Cheese cloth

Tonight I feed
The horses get
Four flakes precisely
Sometimes five
And pellets which they chew
With the sound of
An old-fashioned
Meat grinder like the one
In my mother’s kitchen
(She brought it from
The old country
In her carry-on)
The moon is
My flash light
With a halo stretching
Across it like
Cheese cloth
Straining the essence
Of light

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