by Jim Bennett
over to the east the moon is rising
full as a fruit bursting with light
burning through high cirrus clouds
its sunlight with a halo of ice
it is not be that way or any other
just because you say it is
tomorrow will not shine like a diamond
no matter how much you polish it
a stain is growing weeping further
down the wall a grey ghost passing
I see nothing in your eyes now
sunglasses are so bright
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