May 28

comments 4

This a lunar phase, then,
finding the sun too direct

in its dealings. A dream—
half-real, the cool hallway

of a summer house, dim
and still, with windows

opened to night air.
Given enough time,

a fear of the dark
is roundly displaced,

the moon slakes
some thirst that can’t

be named, but comes
awfully close to respite—

Don’t we all have our tides?
And the summer stars,

they seem to swing lower,
so tempting to pluck one,

two, my heart concave,
my heart a bowl, a place

for things to collect, to settle—
And isn’t it then natural

to long for something
so full and sound and whole?


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