Edge

How many stories does the moonrise retail,
Waiting for dreams to pearl-inlay the detail?

Night's mysterium awaits
The lute, unplucked, patient….

Dark becomes a color too obvious
To see among looking's over-crowded oblivions.

Free dreams on an inner eyelid lie,
Straining to detach and enter a sky.

The dawnline's a focused loss
Of potential, definition scrimmed from nothingness.

Here's an horizon razored from space,
The finned edge of a pit or a grimacing face:

Over the edge go dreams, lutes and dusks,
Long shadows of an improvised mask.