though day

moon

though day, though

 morning rising,

 you,

scooped rind,

hide in a plainer sight

than were you

behind a cloud.

Under you, I’ve pinned

 laundry

to a line.

It sags heavy

toward the grass.

Yesterday the skeletons

of dead trees rose

gray from the ageless

cliffs she and I

walked on.  Rooted

driftwood, they poked

the sky, old islands

I never remember

being green.

But what does ageless

mean?

This morning I woke

from a dream,

and a rim of liquid green,

as seen under water,

hung around my eyes

 like this line

of whites, wet and heavy

in the shifting wind.

It hurts

under the curve

of my left breast, moon.

Where you are now

you’d fit there

perfectly.

You’d dry what’s been

 rinsed and pinned

in the calm or the wind,

what blows between me

and three gulls

who glide above the line

and disappear into the bones

of other old spruces.

They'll never pass by

again.  They never have to.

They’re

not pinned to anything,

wind or rain

or age.

Meet me, please,

when it’s evening again.

When the dark is a pitch

from those old driftwood

trees.  Tuck beneath

my electric yearn

and grow full again.