Untitled  

   In the moonlight the quilt has no color.
   Is a patchwork of different darks, only.

   In the woods the hoot owls are calling each 
   to each and my destiny is three score spent.

   This afternoon you visited, wanting to talk 
   of old times. It seemed an adultery to comply.

   Lying here, awake in the moonlight,
   I recall an ingot of sunlight that lay 

   on the floor between us, a wrenched geometry 
   of gold that could not be lifted.

                          ___________

Copyright © 2005 by Larry Kimmel