Love Story

The moon is a lens watching from its hood
That bit at the end in the dunes,
When her body is like a ship grounded
In the soft grey sand.

The moon is a lens watching from its hood
Her hair alive in the breeze
When everything else is still and
The seagulls are sleeping in their wings.

The moon is a lens watching from its hood
A hand reach around her mouth
To muffle her cries wearing a gold ring
That catches then throws back the moonlight.

The moon is a lens watching from its hood
Those hands washed, with particular attention
Paid to fingernails because dead skin and
Blood easily collect there.

The moon is a lens sleeping in its hood
Dreaming of a scene played out sixteen years earlier
In the sunshine, a lingering shot
As those same hands carefully wipe sticky
Chocolate ice cream from the corners
Of her mouth with a clean white handkerchief.

The moon is a lens watching from its hood.
Throwing down its light.
Doing everything it can.
.
.