You who bless our haunting night with your smile,
who salves blackened wound of our hunter’s moon
melting like blood into White Oak Lake while
crickets chorus omens—you leave too soon.
Who can I tell of your sweet body’s shape
like crescent moon lying in bed ages
away from here while spirit’s agape
stirs with your passion, and despair rages
at your chasing it away? Who concedes
of blue moon no one sees but me now you’ve
veiled stark night with your dream? What song proceeds
from your sleeping breath? How can my voice prove
you consume me with psychic lyrics, sound
too pure to hear where faith and prayer abound?
Roger Armbrust
June 19, 2013
