Moon Traffic
poem #125
Too much said idly to the thief while moonlight burned the leaves invisible at my window, now the objects held tenuous and apart come up through heuristic smoke, the obvious petals of everything— the thief has moved from inside the walls to the open air. In her nostalgia she steals each article so perfectly they leave behind fringed, fibrous fruits that pose like idols in the sleeping cloud. Later a stranger will come, lay out more tremulous things— a census form; a clementine; a jacket with dust in its fur; say a few inevitable words before retreating into the light.
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