I take the same roads home every night and listen to the same songs. The bright sun is never as dark as the day when the blue sky is actually gray and I am floating in this endless summer pool of blurred days and short nights, trying to squeeze sharp beauty out of monotony.
The moon is an amulet,
filigree and opal,
that once caressed your throat -
a silver disc
that stole the sun from Olympus.
Now it graces your wrist
or adorns you hips
in a shiver of song,
full and inviting
as summer plums.