It appears like the crescent moon
outside your window, somewhere near
the eastern horizon, that shore where
night joins day. Never certain
if the moon is rising or setting,
whether it belongs to dawn
or dusk, I know its return
is regular as ordinary hunger.
It surprises me, still, that silver
sliver, silken rim cupped
like the trough your body forms
between the broad outcrops
of your shoulder blades
as you arch toward wakefulness
or sleep, half in dream; curved
like that gully of polished flesh
where I would like to settle, now,
my forehead, press my mouth.
Once we woke to see a corona
expose the whole, shadowed moon,
full as time and black as always.
I think our love must be housed
in that darkness, faithful, round,
not quite hidden. This could be,
instead, where my soul has come
to recognize its roost, or maybe,
simply, the illuminated circle
confirms the constancy
of all I ring my life with, or
attests to continuous possibility.
Regardless, something mysterious
has proven to be a loyal satellite,
and so I do not worry through
the clouded nights and sun-glazed
days without you, but trust
the phases, wait, even when
desire makes me tremble,
shimmering with the memory
of the brilliance we embody
through alliance, waxing.