I will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
—Crepuscule, e.e. cummings
She declares, determinedly
she won’t be seduced by the hype
remembering that time we
went out late
the evening languid in the cold autumn air
in search of a blood orange moon
up on Churchill Heights
and what a disappointment that was
without binoculars and strawberries
simply an orange smudge
this one
a waxing crescent phase
the penumbral eclipse
embracing the moon-rise lunar eclipsing
beaming silver luminous orb
lust with closed eyes
dashed against inks of darkness
the sleeping curves of your body
a lunar mystery of the flesh
gorgeous salute to the firmed thighs
lubricious draperies of snatched lunar minutes
all over Whaler’s Gate
that beaming cyclops rising ever higher
I signed my name, Trevor M Landers
in a dissolving sky.
