One, I left for you,
full and heavy, flush and heady–
smelling like the last coals
of bonfires stoked
on your father's land
in a summer of bullfrogs
and blueberry bushes,
wine-soaked and warm,
secure in our luminance.

The other found me
days later, a pale thing,
wan and waifish, apologetic
in its insignificance–
its body, once ablaze,
an echo carrying your voice
to a city night too bright
for stars or blushing light
and whispered words of praise.

01/16/2011

Author's Note: I remember that the moon, which had been huge in the sky and red, red, red when I left him to Vermont had lost all its color and size by the time I reached Boston, alone.

Posted on 01/16/2011
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