Heavy as harvest, the moon hangs over Purdown. But this is the hunger moon, January's pale, pocked ghost of plenty.
A crucifix, tricked with sodium halo, stair-rod arms and mandarin's hat. We sit at the world's edge, not Jerusalem, skilless of iconography.
Saturn broods in his panopticon, his dark star sucking light. Death is his meditation, the universe his pipe, and Opis shines in vain.