Poetry

Becoming fiercly personal
with no physical contact,
the crescent moon
ultimately occults the Venus.

The grazer now turns into
fugitive. Was not the knower,
was not the known.

No past, no future, you
move with your eyes down
to deny the assault, the flirtation.

Your silence was
unthinkable. I will bring home
the dead. Light is gone. The
slapper sleeps.

In emotional agony I
start prowling for the body.