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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 nisusAbsolution is in the waning only, the mute  
abscondus that takes with it something of secrets  
and time, and leaves the night  
with usC. Wade Bentley