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July 2014, vol 10, no 2

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Philip Gordon


The moon is a widow in the sky. Every tear is a rivulet of silver light, showering the ocean-side walkway in particles of longing. By the shore, the crisp, shifting rays filter into your room through a crack in the glass. They catch your hair in repose: black diamonds. The ripe peach of your cheek; a gentle, whispering mirror. I keep my hands at my sides, because I’m afraid to break the quiet sanctity of something so illuminated. But, before resigning myself to sleep, I can’t help but steal a kiss.

lips on skin
for just a moment, the pale moon
holds her tears