The moon is at my window again, calling
out about something or other. The part of
me that wants to listen is not here.
I turn away, only pretending at surprise. Books
are my astronomy now. The stars are in my
hands. A waxing and waning of something.
There's a fenceline to this corner, when it turns and
bends. I do not really know to where it leads.
Perhaps I will someday again.