Sunday Poem

A NIGHT

when stars come up
diluted; glaze the lake
from underneath, glinting
like fish.

A sultry moon
humpbacked and sour,
fills the horizon with pale light,
a wall of vapours.

I used to be wary of
approaching a scene like this, though
not anymore. I welcome anything
that reminds me of you, the broken pieces

of moon and stars walking in the dark lake;
unstable lights quavering in diverse directions like
your tongue in my mouth, that intricate melody;

even the lucid water with its
silver scales, sliding
through my fingers
much too quickly.

From The Invisible Moon (1988) by Carle Hartsfield.