The Fading Moon

by Tobi Alfier

Summer was a world stripped down

to crows wings and revival hallelujahs.



She rolled over, checked the almanac,

grabbed the keys to the truck,



money for coffee,

then down to the landing.



Their old truck was robins-egg blue

with primer telling the story



of when they had money and when

they didn’t. Globs of red mud



from the tires to the windows

spelled her route to her favorite spot



for clamming, for playing her old guitar,

for watching clouds as they slid down



the sky. Then it was back to the landing

ahead of the tides, to a hot shower



and a warm bed for cuddling, a landmark

in a curious convergence of motives,



sorcery, a read of the broken voices

in which the lost speak.