I can’t picture any of their faces,
I can’t pbut I can still hear the old peoples’ cards
and poor choiceslapping the table around our storm lamp,

all the laughing and stories, clank
I can’t pof pony bottles on linoleum,
and poor choicegood-natured resurrection of screw ups

and poor choices, enough to keep them all
I can’t phumble, enough to guarantee
and poor choicefaith that a heart laid down in the dark

was a heart, and not some diamond
I can’t pthrown down to steal a loose trick
and poor choiceor trump card played out of turn
was a heart, and not soto beat whatever wind was on the way.

The mo—after Frank Relle’s photograph,
The moRelle Gallery, NOLA 2025

The moon hugs the horizon
The moin this shot, and the water’s
The moon hugslow enough for two feet of cypress roots

to sit above this lake’s surface. These trees
The mostand straight, in a pack like
The moon hugsguardians. Of night, of the sinking

light along the horizon, of whatever
The mosecrets that hide on the other side.
The moon hugsGreen needles, moss, shine of bright

beam along the ground—so much
The motexture in this space, so many signs
The moon hugsthings change here. Leaves fall.

Tides rise. The suns climbs and
The mofalls. These trees, though. These trees
The moon hugscan’t leave the frame. Won’t. Witness, or no.