Walking at Dusk
Across a planet lit only by the yellow 
moon and distant farms, I envy you 
your wordless pallette, with colors 
less nuanced than language.  Tonight 

I am one half of a cracked photo 
plate; you are engraved in the sky 
beside me.  As the daffodil moon rises 
across the lake, the whole sky

collects its light.  I stand in a symphony
of bullfrog songs, some like lucky dice
clicking, some like coughing cats.  An owl
beyond the pond startles a raccoon into the road.

I stand alone.  How would you capture
this summer sky?  A firefly hangs blinking
beside me in the hole where you should be, 
his slow light the glow of your cigarette

before you answer.  You are the generosity 
of the wide horizon.  I am etched on a half 
plate in silver against the black prairie
night, without a scratch to pass for a star.



19 June, 2003

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