Up in the sky, this late in the day,
the sun and the moon face off.
The sun is a big orange ball,
the moon sheer as rice paper.

The lighthouse on Love Point
is lost in the glare.
It rises needle-like,
but nobody lives there.

Backlit by the sun, two
swans glide on the bay,
not touching each other,
not pulling away.

Two, two of a kind,
we walk the narrow, unkempt path,
one behind the other,
avoiding the saw-toothed trap

that waits for a small thing’s hunger
as the hunter waits in his blind,
taking aim at the sun and the moon
in the cross-hairs of the gun.

The swans rise ‘soul in soul,’
as the hunter brings down the sun,
their cries as they circle above
all unutterable names for love.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 5 Number 7, on page 38
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