At the turn of the century, on the count of three, the moon will move westward across the lake, then drop into the red sleep of pretending. Seven years later, night will stir itself on a branch outside the window of a temporary home. All homes are temporary, gems of the known. Moonstones, real moonstones, are as rare as Minneapolis monsoons.
Michael Quattrone Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2022, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|