The Chill Night's Full Moon Poem by Peggy Aylsworth

for Russ Fine

The Sabbath day had passed.
He didn't inherit the earth.
The parental lick had thinned
to dryness.
Longing wears bare feet,
mistakes desire for soft shoes.
He looks into the lighted window.
What calls the solitary self
makes room. He stumbles in.
Oh! wrap me even in the guise of love.
I can pretend perfection, but
why do these blotches still distort?

Outside, inside his reach refuses,
believing the hand will burn.
A sip, a sound of music, a glimpse,
a touch that touches. When did
the moon round into wholeness?