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.
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