1
I leave the camera on the table,
for the night wanderings.
Through the window a gibbous moon crisps, gold around the edges,
never quite crystal clear.
Dearer to me that way, I say,
grabbing the camera and going outside.
Spinning, I begin capturing late traffic on the hill highways,
house lights, street lamps.
The shook lens turns these
triangular, or links them, strung wires of
thin warmth. Our lit humanity is earthbound,
I think then.
No small wonder when
star interruptions stretch before me,
unmoved by my hand,
under a moon,
perceptively puddled, untouchably
present, an unaltered pond long
before and after tonight.
____________________
2
Up there.
Cool air.
Second sleep.
