Hair
As if we have
any answers.
Still, we imply.
All that I have come
to believe in:
the measurement of time,
the presence of light,
the moon, gaping at us.
Across the lake
there is a girl
running her fingers
through her waist length hair.
Or is it a shadow of something else?
It's intriguing. I am intrigued by her.
By the slow split she makes
in that curtain of hair.
By the moonlight and its cravings.
This has been one of the longest days.
Flesh
The water rinses cold
over the shore.
Flows.
Our legs linger.
We say things
occasionally, but softly
so as not to break into
the night's apprehension.
Empty eye of the moon,
fleshes us out.
Again, the water breaks.
Fingers the rocky shore.
I'm wide awake.
Absolving The Eye
We drink to the night.
To tradition. To the lake's
tinsel. To the goose bumps
crawling across our skin.
To the palest moon
I have ever seen.
To nostalgia.
To the tapering of trees.
To the hand's eye.
To the constellations
which fling themselves out
across the earth's ceiling
like a suspended dream.
To the lakeside.
To the water's edge
lapping the shore.
To your wet, wet mouth
covering mine.
Copyright © 2003 Lisa Zaran