Last Year
in dark faded denim,
the moon sits on a bank of clouds,
beside the tall Sequoia,
above slanted rooftops.
Your smoke wafts up to the
second balcony where I look,
snaking up my nostrils.
Scooting over, I lose the moon,
now a pale disk
crossed by electric wires,
behind the redwood's branches.
Heather Shaw
April 30th, 1999
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