She's about to say, No, just past full
When we turn down the last alley to home:
the darkest stretch
A furtive wispy motion, the shape of a sneer
Halts us dead or alive
The wild maw of someone else's escaped fantasy
Is ready to swallow us
In our own backyard alley.
It is seriously tempting, this lure to be
taken in, taken to where
there are no more arguments
about the moon
taken beyond this dangling dull familiarity
And though she feels it too,
Our hands find each other.
El Paso, 2004.04.10