Lit more by stars than
pregnant moon,
a child could wish
to walk their valleys,
even dance.
I console myself blindly --
pleasure can subsume
the ache
for a sharper biting joy
that shrieks muffled within.
Turn up the lights, draw close the covers,
stir a cup of chocolate in a grey morning.
It is not a bad ending.
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
Somewhere in the air,
between Chicago and S.F.
February 28, 1997
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