You put this pen
in my hand and you
take the pen from
my hand. the night
before the full moon

the moon seems
full. what is missing
is a dark hungry
sickle, the sliver
of shadow eating

us up inside. after
the mountains breathe
their mint-and-sorrow
green against the long
summer sky, they burst

into hot october
laughter, lighting
the horizon with citrus,
rust, and blood. you
put this knife in my

hand. we pull. we
meet as oceans come
together, heaving
against and clinging
across our salt watery

boundary. we approach
endlessly like two rails
of one track, tied
in a parallel that
promises our eyes to

merge, someplace far
off in the distance. you
put this feather in my
palm. my fingers
close around flight.