I’ve searched for you again
in the rising illusions
of three hundred and sixty five dawns,
yet none court me like before.
The moonstruck magic dissolved
inside my unattended plot.
Its gardener, exposed
within my mirror, tried tricking me
with kisses. From where I stand
there is no one to pay for the moon’s
washboarding. Crows and scarabs
have first bids on my mortgage.
© Sergio A. Ortiz, May 29, 2010