March Night

I came to bed thinking of a girl
with hair of September wheatgrass.

The moon watched me there, diaphanous,
concave. I poked it with my finger

and popped it in my right eye
so I could see the plain truth,

the shapes of things from all their sides.
I saw right through the world

and the moonlight bounced back to me
on a river that smelled sweet and rank

that was the girl, reflexion of my bright desire.

 

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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