By C. Wade Bentley
In the way the half-moon hangs like a lobe is the sense of someone listening, eavesdropping through blue-black chiffon without a rustle. In the light let through is all the gravity of confessional, the settling of dust on wide shoulders like starlit lint. And by quarters like grimaces the moon rounds open, the full lips pregnant in prehistoric, cathedral nisus. Absolution is in the waning only, the mute abscondus that takes with it something of secrets and time, and leaves the night with us. C. Wade Bentley
