The lost words are caught in the willow tree.

And the moon is in my pocket.

I can handle the moon slipping into my pocket. I turn her over with my car keys. Arbutus bark flakes off of her. At night I take tweezers and collage the shine back together. Some nights, the moon cries and asks to stay hidden. I tell her that they began building a road to the past. It will take five times the country’s budget. She tells me that underne…