You cast a pale reflection on water, stones ripple through you like
butter, same as fingers do; a round pregnancy in my throat
when you are full and orange or when you glow, my proudest
accomplishment: closeness in the ponds.  
Currents wrinkle but man’s moon keeps the face that smiles a blush sweetly,
begging need when you speak back through the tides, the very intruders.  
I can dream only so much out of windows
where shadows and bumpy distance lets me see you blinking in the
dark, full, or gone, the roundness hangs heavy in the calming
darkness; a rock that is alone. Though you walk often through me in visions,
I know I can never touch you.  

I see it change, diminishing in cycles, and it’s true,
no woman has ever seen the black behind it and no moon has ever heard
what I say to it through my windows.