The moon is watching through the window.
She sits low over the low hills,
daubing the housetops and lightpoles with silver.
In my drowsy mind
in the cool air of the first moments of tomorrow
I confuse her name and my state,
“Selene” and “serene.”
I think one must derive from the other
though which came first remains unanswered
like the first question you asked me.

Her silver spills into our darkened room
across my legs
bare and exposed on the white blanket
still damp, my flesh still bright and warm,
your head black on my shoulder,
your breath just one element of the silence
as are the neighbor dogs,
the mourning doves,
the passing cars on the hillside.
When dreams turn your face,
gibbous in black hair,
white as milk in her light,
I want to sleep like this forever.