They turn,
moon faces pale
in the darkness,
black hollows
where their souls
should burn, they
turn, and
their faces turn,
as we amble
past, the beautiful
dog and I.
Leafy hands,
unpruned, reach
upward to pluck
stars, one by one,
from the clear sky,
—children, picking
paste gems from
flaking gold—
they reach, up
and out, toward
and away from,
spooking the dog,
but I know
we will soon pass,
soon be home,
and the pale
moons will still
have only holes,
the branches remain
unrestrained.
A dog barks twice,
squeals, and we
are grateful
for narrow, steep
stairs, from the top
of which, we could
continue watching them,
if we cared to.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
Photo: Koszalin Street, at Night by Kalasznikow47
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