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by Kay Weeks
The moon and I, impossibly aligned
for some strange reason that escapes me now.
Coming back–it's nothing like "He’s mine!"
I see a face, elusive at the brow.
Heads west too fast to strike up love–to save,
yet lingering too long, so stirs up need:
Some premature connection (we're not brave)
to tie a knot, to ride the light, my steed!
I know this sounds a bit like push and pull,
my words deluded by that glowing ball:
He’s dropped below my vision; back to null.
Still–asking you to listen to this–all!
Did you pierce the night to catch the glow?
I did, but now it’s dawn, so I must go.