Seems as if I'm seeing you 
from far away, 
staring at a moon of blue 
touched in pretty gray. 
I stand lost in infatuation, 
but your glance, so brief, 
makes me feel like some small nation, 
your notice far beneath. 
And every one of his words, 
I had hoped were lies, 
comes back like carrion birds, 
swords in speech's guise. 
How did he reach so high, 
to, your heart, pluck 
from the very sky? 
Or was that really his luck? 

February 10, 1985