At This Angle in the Light of the Moon

Oblique and raking
our ghost visible
And the moon alone
shares our secret

Feel a Little Peculiar

Some links are meant to go dead in the fullness of time, 

lights to fade out at the end of a dance, the revelers moving 

in dark cars through the rain, making their way home to where 

creature comforts of worn thin chairs and the trace of cigarette

smoke that lingers is the stuff of long ingrained memory.