Painting Night

Eyes close with new memories
in three-quarters of moon
lit soft as luminaria, almost
insubstantial but enough
to slip hair, pressing cheek

or dropping

falling

falling

brushing

a shoulder, forearm, hip.

This is the fate of whispering
lips close and laughing loony.
This is the art of painting night

point to compass point, roadways
flower bordered, waterways speak,
star fields yield to sun. This is a song.

The fate of breath held long,
then breathed, then shared--

the dancing with no net,
the tightrope walking air.