Tonight
the moon is a perfect circle.
Nature abhors perfect circles.
I wrote a poem about that.
Forgive me.
A thousand insects, driven by desire, bombard
the glass globe of the porch lamp.
The smoke of my cigar drifts upward like nostalgia
Haiku--
Gesundheit!
Under gibbous moons
by the quiet dark water
awake, she dreams me.
I reach out to touch her fingertips.