As if we have
any answers.
Still, we imply.
All that I have come
to believe in:
the measurement of time,
the presence of light,
the moon, gaping at us.
Across the lake
there is a girl
running her fingers
through her waist length hair.
Or is it a shadow of something else?
It's intriguing.  I am intrigued by her.
By the slow split she makes
in that curtain of hair.
By the moonlight and it's cravings.
This has been one of the longest days.