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Our bliss is like the moon:
it waxes and wanes
and takes different places
in the sky and changes shape,
but it is always the moon
sculpted by a billion years’
journey, an anointed
satellite that revolves
around the beauty we create
on borrowed light
and what we do with it
is ours, all ours

not one of those cheap joys
we’ve both had before,
you’d recognize the kind
from the way it tastes like
the dregs of a drunken night
at the bottom of the glass,
gets your head to spin
a couple of times and
leaves you all too soon
smeared with regrettables
and forgettables,
just one more spoil
on the heap of dirty laundry
that one either airs out
on a clothesline
for all to see
or gets folded and tucked
among layers of shame and
a darkness that
you can never really rely on
to harbor your fugitives
for life, or sustain
your illusion that
there is such a thing
as a clean slate

there is only that one moon
and a revolution,
and the celestial
enigma of space
that your soul calls home.

Reign Magazine 2013 Aisle Style
by photographer Frances Marron


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