You saw the new moon last night,
and it was holding the old moon in its arms.
Four-and-twenty stars fell,
twenty-four brief needles of light
that kept my deepest secrets.
You saw night lean on me, my lover.
Tom Waits was singing something
about moon-shadow mosquitoes and sour lemonade
and the forgotten lyrics of “The Nut-Brown Maid.”
You saw night look back and wait for me,
and I didn't wait for you.
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