The moon is up there,
cold and round,
abandoning me
to dreams of danger and belonging.

The silhouette of a crane
against the sky,
as still as dusk,
drowning in the drifting clouds.

What is there to say
into the phone I imagine
at your ear?

On what day of the week will I die?
What will be the last slip
of paper I watch burn?

You have new eyes.
I wish you flowers
and mornings of color.

Goodbye.



by jerry gordon
12.15.05