The moon is almost full, I say.
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
     simply taken.
And though she feels it too,
Our hands find each other.

El Paso, 2004.04.10

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