Whey-faced and Jane Eyre-wane

the moon in her nightgown

restlessly

          rolls over.

Her cheek is stroked by passing clouds

and dimpling in her dreams

she sighs.

Skittish foam

          races to shore

a tangle of mane and snorted steam.

It prances

all lather and frisk

challenging the shoreline

till

sweeping water trowels the audacity

slick and shiny-wet.

My role

is silence.

No part of

the evening.

More transient

than they.

Footsteps fish bone in every direction

sign-posting cigarette stashes, perhaps lovers' nooks.

Too soon

I'll return

to fire

and faces

to minds

tentacle-sly

and a shoal of eyes.