My Furtive Muse

The muzzle flash of the moon is infused with clouds where the brightness tapers off on knees that poke through the slit in her dress; the hem slips off her crossed legs. Gunpowder in sieves flecks her irises when she glimpses through my lunar haze of daydreams that I'll trigger her to smile. A Guns N' Roses song flogs silence in the back- ground of my mind as she stands to shake hands I synchronously half-rotate to kiss. Her wedding ring tastes like zinc, or some strange kettle of moondust while she avers that I look as pale as mists conspiring to discover our trail. Though we can't see her butler crack the whip to keep a distant carriage in place, whinnying clouds beam a grin to her face.