THREE VIEWS OF MOONCHANCE
She is new to town and
We walk together through the unfractured night
To join the quiet gawkers on the hilltop
Who bite their lips
As if what scuds in the waters of heaven, nearly invisible,
Were the white knucklemeat of God.
She turns away soon, disappointed.
It's only the shadow of our old house passing over
A shiny bottle-end mired in the duck pond.
She lowers her head against the wind
While behind and above her hangs a face half-glimpsed
Through the darkened window of a car passing in the rain.
Moonlight hisses to the pavement around us like fine sand,
Blessing all those unpromised moments
Shared by people who will never meet again.
Foreign Service Journal, Mississippi Review, MANOA, William & Mary Review, Madison Review, Willow Review, Portland Review, Cream City Review, etc.
Former fiction editor of the Chicago Review
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