November 25

Sometimes I feel shy
as a rabbit caught
in arrant moonlight–

crepuscular,
I loathe extremes.

What is this light
that floods my life?
Am I prey

or is this love,
finally–

for so long I have
sought out gray:
Too dark for night,

too light for day–
purposed impossibilities.

It isn’t only doubt
that makes my heart race,
but those howls at dawn

chill my heart
to an ice-clotted lake.

Everything is loss:
Of stars, of sun–
so who am I to gain?

Warren-deep, moon
-bright, in any state
that catch-all refrain:

What have I done
to deserve this?

OPTIONAL POETRY