Nocturne

Nocturne

When the winter scent combs

her newly-washed hair, the moon

slips into the pond and wanes

in the ripples. His fingers

on her black keys are playing

something as she sings along

with each key silently—and that’s

when he tells her “beautiful”

and starts to count moles

on her back, shining vaguely

like starts by the new moon.

“Where’s the moon now?” she asks

but he lets her eyes closed and

starts to play again, more slowly

this time, as nocturnes are, for

she has nights to remember

each key alone.