The moon in the valley mist shimmies upon the Manor roof:
a lady dancing in a veil, gauzy and seductive,
in the space between night and day.
of my Venetian blinds.
I am alive in her blue light.
between the slats of light.
I am alone
and you are so far away.
“Can you see the moon?
Does the desert dress her differently?
Does your heat rise to cradle her body
suspended in liquid sky?
Do her shards of light
sleeping ‘neath the Pinyon Pine?”
I would be that light,
catching my hair on needles:
a shadow dancing on your tent wall:
from my fingertips,
your face in sleep.
We are impaled with light,
the luminous flux,
spanning the Mogollon Rim to the Rogue Valley,
between Northwest Willow and Ponderosa Pine,
basking in her light bars: the earthlight cold in our morning breath,
inhaling air glow in the flutter of REM sleep.
a whisper of movement across your face,
behind tall mountains.
In that moment:
You and me on a horizontal eclipse.
A refraction of light fading to daylight
and then gone.
I am alone
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