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