ALL THESE SOFT, WARM NIGHTS GOING TO WASTE
On this full-mooned night, the sky is alight,
the road glows, the stars dangle like tinsel
on last year’s tree, hinged
to the endless season of sky. You hear an echo
in the air, over the late-night road,
in the mating calls of the frogs leaping
by the lake. It's nearly spring, and wind is irregular
breath—the time her hand found the fossa
behind your knee. That hitch. That heat.
And you remember the wildflowers that sprung up
from soaked earth, turned loverlike, intertwined,
only for their petals to fray
and brown. Only to hang their heads, mourning
the winter. How you winter the lack—
the absence of the one you want.
You consider this bright, cratered thing,
bone-white as the thigh your fingers ghosted over.
Moonstruck, you eye this glow as you sway
on your axis, knowing, far away, she sees it too—
a thought that craters you.