The Moon's Prow Poem by gregory collins

The dream i had is getting late,
when i talked to you for an hour in a bar.
Sipping beers for a little peace from God.
Our laughs seeming to overlap all those lines and circles.
Where i felt like just a few witches burning and an angel,
remembering to share it fairly and get nervous.
When this needle is an inch from her veins,
and i start right now on her tongue.
Quietly making noise like tiny holes afraid to blink.
Washing the moon's prow with wishful hopes
reaching out for something: Finding their own shadows
the old owners of light.