As if we have
any answers.
Still, we imply.

All that I have come
to believe in:

the measurement of time,
the presence of light,
the moon, gaping at us.

Across the lake
there is a girl
running her fingers
through her waist length hair.

Or is it a shadow of something else?

It's intriguing. I am intrigued by her.
By the slow split she makes
in that curtain of hair.
By the moonlight and it's cravings.

This has been one of the longest days.

by Lisa Zaran

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