The moon appeared to me
like a snickering school girl.
She brushed the snot from
her nostrils, clearing her hand on
a communion dress made from
luminous, white fabric.

She proceeded cautiously,
balanced precariously on spiked heels,
Stumbling along uneven paths
like a hunchback in a Flemish wood carving

But then she posed for me
in the manner of a silent-movie star,
all smiles,
lipstick beauty and cabaret flare.
(“Your Martini?”)
Her lips drew close to my ear.

With a graceful sweep of the arm
we were hid behind the dilated eyes
of a peacock-feathered fan.

She said nothing, nor did we kiss.

And she was gone,

just as quickly as she appeared
to vouchsafe a brief vision
in the interval of a cigarette.