– moon through the trees,
A tired, shining face;
The very smell of moon
Seasoned with pollen –
Why must I record?
My life’s a postcard
Never to be sent,
A camera set to run, a blinking eye,
A capsule for him to open in some other time or place.
I am a ghost town
In the desert dust,
Waiting for one who never went away,
Waiting, forever waiting, for the day he might pass by.
Tiptoeing through the leaves;
No longer lived-in house
Dark under ivy; polished, empty rooms –
Painting: A Dance Around The Moon by Charles Altamont Doyle