Once upon

a blue moon, blood moon, I wanted

to see: but either I woke up too late
or the moon had by then finished

its brief shadow play—
And I wondered about those lovers,

the ones whose paths cross in the sky
only once a year because in the story

they are cursed, or their love
is forbidden, or someone decided

a story acquires pathos if cruel fate
is written into it— What happens

if they miss the great once a year
rendezvous because the train is late

or the alarm is set wrong or the same
old, same old ritual doesn’t quite

cut it the same as before? What if either
one starts to wonder whether it might be

better to announce Hey I’ve decided
to throw my name into match.com?

Only a saint could have that much
patience; no one could be that much a fool—

In other words, what is the nature
of a true, great love? No one’s

been able to figure it out yet,
here below as above.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← UnseenService →

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