Grace and Peace to you.
Her black skin disappears in the black night
but her eyes are open.
At the end of the street is the half moon,
her eyes open, too.
She watches the moon down the street,
turns the corner, stays on the near side
so she can see the moon above the fence.
Stops to see the moon under the branches of the tree,
then passes the house.
There is the moon, between houses.
And between the next two.
Now a little park, where the moon slides
through the trees, watching her,
and over the low roof of the garage,
reflected in the car hoods out front,
bulging and receding over one hood and the next.
Now down the hill, the moon moving
in and out between roofs and chimneys,
always coming back.
Finally she comes to her house, up the steps,
where the moon is between the posts
and inside and up to her room
where it looks in her window in wonder
at her full moon eyes,
two kindred spirits, who sometimes disappear
but who are always watching.
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