I watch and  stand
and let a passing
cloud
hit by moonlight
make a rimmed
spectacle
of a distant want.

I shift my weight
and blink;
recalling wordless
feelings before
I put into words
those useless
aphorisms.

It's the words,
with their wanton
un-mouthed ache,
that bleat silently
against the ear,
tangling those
as yet un-marked
and un-surveyed
desires,
whose syntax'
obliterating duster
transforms an
ancient passion
into a grammatical
smudge.

I blink again
and return
to my frosted gate.
Pausing, I catch
a reflection
of the nearly moon
breaking free from
the hiding clouds-
and for an instant
my feelings,
unwritten,
unspoken,
return.