New moon

Every thumbnail reminds me
to tuck coins into my pockets.
The window rattles when
the meter maid rides by.


Waxing gibbous

On Tuesday, mail arrives
from the colony— each page
soaked with the smell
of fog and bitter melon.


Full moon

After we drank the tea down to the dregs,
the gypsy read our fortunes. I want to know,
Where did she learn to tell the shape
of death from that of pillows?


Waning crescent

The meadow was ablaze
with firefly light. I knelt
in the garden, practicing
for certain grief.


In response to Via Negativa: Face to face.

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