the moon fit on the face of a penny 

you can't tell the sun to 
go to sleep in august-- she
reads by flashlight
like i never did--
i envy the kids who had
that kind of focus to
crawl under their on blanket
canopies & walk on the roof
tops
of words-- have always been
a back porch person--
i don't pick up the moon on my
my night time walk because 
it's a heads down penny &
those are bad luck--
i'll wait for a day when it's a 
quarter or a nickle but never a dime 
because dimes have a way of 
getting lost-- 
i need an umbrella out here
to shelter myself from 
falling flower petals off
& stumbling stars--
the bees get drunk on the 
stone path from nectar & 
drops of star light--
they buzz in the backdrop
of disembodied voices--
the cicadas all hiding & singing--
a bird crooning to 
his lover from between
two telephone wires--
i remember the first time i discovered
binoculars in our attic--
i rushed outside to try them 
out on the night sky & they didn't
work too well at catching stars but
across the yard i saw our
neighbor in her window--
so much like a ghost in a pink bathroom
& maybe she was washing dishes &
maybe she was wiping off her hands--
her mouth moved like a puppet 
& i couldn't see who she was talking to
but she smiled in a way that you
only do when no one is watching you &
i felt so small-- like my entire
existence could fit inside the frame
of a penny or a moon--
i stepped inside the lens of the binocular 
so that i could see everyone like that--
in their windows-- making themselves 
a game of quiet charades--
i turned back to my own
window & saw myself their combing my
long brown hair wet from a shower--
i want to wave to her but i'm stuck
inside the left binocular-- focusing
in on the moon & trying to
see the face everyone has been talking about--
when i climb out the bruises
of dusk are gone & the night 
is heavy in the downpour
of street lights & blinking
kitchen windows--
my neighbor has left the portrait
her figure made behind the glass & i 
hang the binoculars back around my neck--
i go back to the stone path around
my house where i walk myself 
into a blank page-- my body a
comma maybe or an em-dash--
i trust a night in august--
she's reading the people in
their windows like no one expects to
be watched-- 
the august night is somewhere between
a mother & a dropped coin--
pick her up & keep 
her in your back pocket
for when the sun puts the street lamps
out-- as careful as an acolyte--
snuffing out her candles one
by one--