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Poem	At sixteen I believed the moonlight could change me if it would. I moved my head on the pillow, even moved my bed as the moon slowly crossed the open lattice. I wanted beauty, a dangerous gleam of steel, my body thinner, my pale face paler. I moonbathed diligently, as others sunbathe. But the moon's unsmiling stare kept me awake. Mornings, I was flushed and cross. It was on dark nights of deep sleep that I dreamed the most, sunk in the well, and woke rested, and if not beautiful, filled with some other power.
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