I used to think the moon followed me, stalking
behind a picket line of trees, extending fingers
of glassy light towards the car as we carved
along the road to stop by the gate
of coppiced sticks. My legs, log-heavy and pale
as stripped pine, would thud into the dark.
I’d find my feet, lumber to bed, search
for his face in the wallpaper

wait for him to emerge from the flocked foliage
to pad silently into bed. I’d play dead
under his weight, he panted, fur greased with exertion.
I’d watch raindrops strike the pane,
chasing the flash of car lights ghosting the glass
as the man in the moon beamed down, said nothing.

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