Poem by Lisa Zaran
As if we have
Still, we imply.
All that I have come
to believe in:
the measurement of time,
the presence of light,
the moon, gaping at us.
Across the lake
there is a girl
running her fingers
through her waist length hair.
Or is it a shadow of something else?
It's intriguing. I am intrigued by her.
By the slow split she makes
in that curtain of hair.
By the moonlight and it's cravings.
This has been one of the longest days.
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