1
The boy who swallowed the moon
has soft hands, and white.
He must be held against the cold.
Fireflies dim in his cupped palms;
owls flush in his wake.
In the pond rests his full reflection,
perfect and safe.
The bullfrog dark, lit only by his cigarette,
fills with need.
2
With pre-dawn clarity
we discuss ghosts, believe in them
like we believe in the brush of timothy,
the sting of gnats. The creek carries away
our words; falling stars
burn through a shifting mist.
A pale rock becomes
a skunk. A hand becomes wind.
by Kristen Lindquist
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