To Arielle and the Moon

The night reduced to a siren, a sigh: Beautiful boy on the treadmill Glimpsed sweating through sweating glass— My new moon. Sylvia’s moon: a smiling skull Snagged in witchy branches; fossil Brushed free of blackest earth. My last moon: an orange ball at rest, for an instant, On the grey lake. Wish list: dining set and dresser, Boombox, thin black tie, boy- Friend à la Madonna’s “True Blue” La la la la la la la Your moon (tonight): a clouded X-ray. I stand at a corner and stare up, Both of us astonished By its own secret light.