CAROLYN FISHER

Epithalamium for the Moon and a Breeze

Across the bed, through open curtains,
the moon throws its broad bone of light
over the confusion of our limbs
like a door swinging wide into the night.
The wall is excited by our shadow
and the filigree of a tree, leaves
play the length of your thigh like a piano:
the breeze turns a tune from wind-lit keys.
We are immured by a rhythm,
the bars of a melody that free us from
the cacophony of imperfection.
Airs grace the room and we become
two notes in a song
as flawless as the chords are strong.