Instead of dog years, I would prefer
to measure time in moth years,

by a moon not full but waning,
not howled at but named for,

not Indian but gossamer
summer nights.

Not the nobility of turning
always homeward,

but fragile,
reckless beauty of flying

into every sunrise,
when every sunrise

might be nothing more
than a porch light.

Michael Berkowitz is a poet, web developer and aspiring trapeze artist. He lives in Somerville, Massachusetts. His work has most recently appeared in Sixfold.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Luna

  1. roachbook says:

    ah, yes! The last five lines especially.

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