In The Lake of the Moon
from a porcelain
face ripples a mouth
laden with secrets but nothing is told
in the lake of the moon
lunar eyes wet,
murky, watch treetops
poke bottoms of dream-sodden skies
from which birds fly away
this mover of
tides, this body of craters,
rests its reflection on waterbed evenings
in the lake of the moon
The 2River View, 2_4 (Summer 1998)