the moon's cold face
the first born
fathoms
our secret atmosphere
I see its stare
uncurtaining those clouds
its stillness
sets in motion
sometimes I hear its voice
in the overhead
that fizzle and electric hum
whenever its stale flourescence
floods an empty room
the first time
I felt its coldness
was at the skating rink
where I could smell the chill
its breath made in the air
first bracing then numbing
as I watched the ice machine
draw its smooth elipses
around that lunar surface
glistening bluish-white
and pocked in all the places
where I dreamed
of the figures I would make
and never did
© Jeanne Wagner, 1996