Whey-faced and Jane Eyre-wane
the moon in her nightgown
restlessly
rolls over.
Her cheek is stroked by passing clouds
and dimpling in her dreams
she sighs.
Skittish foam
races to shore
a tangle of mane and snorted steam.
It prances
all lather and frisk
challenging the shoreline
till
sweeping water trowels the audacity
slick and shiny-wet.
My role
is silence.
No part of
the evening.
More transient
than they.
Footsteps fish bone in every direction
sign-posting cigarette stashes, perhaps lovers' nooks.
Too soon
I'll return
to fire
and faces
to minds
tentacle-sly
and a shoal of eyes.
