For John Looker
Skin white as chalk, she stands alone.
Her numbness moreover
has left untended what it came to uncover:
the webs of the brain are webs of light.
The moon will rise early this evening.
It will turn celestial and fly across the lake
in a reflection of a reflection.
At least we think it will…
A gifted child of the earth,
it might end its life forever this evening—
this coming summer’s evening—
prurient and tingling,
as though it were only a belly dancer sent
to entertain only us.