small boats on travis
Near the cabin door the Riesling is spent,
its dark bottle rolls across a soggy floor
and knocks. It rolls and knocks, tapping

like a woman with a cane. Fishing boats
huddle below the disappearing sun, they hush
like bees settled in their hives.

Moon after moon, I watched the bright
white sails. Circling, gliding,
dancers in a rink. I waited, a waterbird

with silent wings. Fools, what headless
fools we were. We could have
had these nights, been these nights,

these groggy kisses laced with wine.
This night. Our night, our soul.
The lake pulls down her screen, rice paper thin

and stipple-brushed with every shade of
red and violet-blue. Our eyes
can hardly know where water ends and skies begin.

We listen, wrapped in a duck-feather quilt, as the
balm of night sweeps to its pillow where
we lie in our boat of dreams.


Mia Moore

"A highly readable blend of poetry and prose."