the moon is low and cut
like the neckline of your shirt
thoughts whisper and echo
recesses of my mind, draped
in vine often yielding no fruit

it's a long walk home
and thoughts have time to settle
like dust on untraveled gravel
the quiet glossiness of the night
soon crusts and becomes weary

woebegone clouds that make
a man wonder how many forms
loneliness can take skitter and
dissipate into shapes resembling
nothing, to which I relate

© All Rights Reserved