Gliding in circles, a moon slides in from the sea
and will exit again at high tide.
No larger than a fin, the moon scales our eucalyptus grove.
The moon sleeps in a house where shadows are no longer in love.
Moon on a woman’s hand mirrors the carbon symmetries
of the charcoal she holds—sketching.
Night is the new moon shorn for a letter
mailed overseas.I hear no farewell nor see nostalgia
in a lunar cloud.
The low tide where a moon circles
finned without gills
swallows a star whose own name nobody knows. Eye without an iris
observes a faded world without judgment
waiting on God.
What I did not hear this evening or failed to see:
this pupil of light.
Copyright © Karen An-Hwei Lee
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.