Poem

New Hampshire Night

August moonlight:
the echo of possibility,

shadowless soil and bright grass,
pavement cool and sandy under foot

your fingertips glance against my
forearm, tickle skin, take my hand.

Head back, staring at the stars,
can you name any of them?

You tell me: Little Dipper, Big
Dipper, Sirius, Andromeda, others

you touch through me. The hair
on my arms rise, static, alive -

modern day Frankenstein.
I group my heart, on its’ own,

with desire. Go ahead. Go.
You, monster, are not alone.