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
C. Wade Bentley