4

As if the moon
were a woman that you stared at
from across the room

but could never approach.

Our jag of tranquility becomes
an open scar.

Sea of dust pulling with tide. Always
the lust glistens there, as ice.

So you count out the blemishes
on her beautiful, haughty face.

The metaphor is exhausted;

there is now no way to live
that is not thoroughly worn.