"Blood Moon, 7:45"
For a brief moment in time
the eye of the moon gazed
down upon my past loves, past
heart-wonders, upon you, my past lover.
For a while before it became
a sliver of a skiff, you and I,
the Owl and the Pussycat, were in love
once more inside a silver boat sailing
on the sea of sky—and almost disappeared
or dipped behind a star. Our love-
spittle descending down, our salivation,
our salvation of the moment
before the amorous fuzz that became
us was no more. No matter
what science finds us here (there),
two love-sucked suckers in a field
of budding roses turning the great dial
and straining against the pawl. All
that time I thought I knew you,
fed you a moment of me. Every cliche
tucked neatly in place, snug as
the diamond you placed upon my hand,
our pawnshop find, our brilliant
glass act. We were a sensuous lot,
a cipher coming home, our signals
strong as the waves crashing upon our shore.
Do you evermore? I hope so. There
where the mist envelopes, just over
that ridge where the light, now a nail
without a finger, points. For a moment
we were a phenomena I will remember
to the grave. Or until fire becomes me
and I peer out upon a lucid bay
again. Under this blood moon drawing
our animal souls from home, I am
once again with you, gazing into
that part of myself who sits here
still. That heart that still loves
you—before the season passes,
before this changeling light disappears
into a blood mush and reappears,
changed. Same moon. Same face.
Same love, but shadowed and reinvented.
Soon to be, again, mundane
as that moon now refracting the sun's dial.
And I'm left here, dialing alone,
and wondering of you, your total
eclipse from me. And, move on.