It’s cloudy, and your moon seems smudged: silver thumb on black-blue night. I look up, knowing that you look, knowing we complete three angles: earth to star, to earth. Knowing that the much between is nothing, not to those enraptured. Not to us. Regret the time what intervenes attracts. Curse the day the world means too much.
About the Poet:
David Dumouriez was born, has lived a bit, and will probably die.