Tuesday, June 27, 2017

West Side, 9:00 p.m. (Day 160)

They turn, 
moon faces pale 
in the darkness, 
black hollows 
where their souls 
should burn, they 
turn, and 
their faces turn, 
as we amble 
pastthe beautiful 
dog and I. 
Leafy hands, 
unpruned, reach 
upward to pluck 
stars, one by one, 
from the clear sky,
—children, picking 
paste gems from 
flaking gold—
they reach, up 
and out, toward 
and away from, 
spooking the dog, 
but I know 
we will soon pass, 
soon be home, 
and the pale 
moons will still 
have only holes, 
the branches remain 
A dog barks twice, 
squeals, and we 
are grateful 
for narrow, steep 
stairs, from the top 
of which, we could 
continue watching them, 
if we cared to.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Koszalin Street, at Night by Kalasznikow47

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