The Moon Died at Aster

a waxen yellow
crescent glow
descended into
the cutting tops of
downtown buildings

as we watched from
an open window
across a slipping river
in red leather
chairs and candle
light vigil
of some brick structure.

it was smooth
as Tullamore Dew
and matured grapes
in crystal glasses,

and silk stalks outside
in Oktober wind,
and crushed leaves
under pedestrian feet,
and third avenue bridge
loomed the same.

the moon died
at Aster, it was just
going away.

it was coming anew,
meeting familiar horizons
on a different day.

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