The Sharing Hour

On the cusp of dark partitions,
like a boat that's water-laden,
oaring over waves of rims,
hurdles of the east.

The lunar climb is intimate
in the round, a festal platter held
in the face of firelight;
earth-tainted amber.

The sky behind the gravid rise
is like a cornfield stirring
in the dark: vacant and dry
and pollinizing,

in this sharing hour;
streets are breathed on, blushed for, warmly
looked on, before the stars
take their limpid pearl.