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ROBERT STRATFORD

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The end of May

 

I can see the moon

outside this office window –

 

it’s not even 4 o’clock

but it’s big in the sky

 

half-waxed or waned

chasing the sun’s narrow

 

slide across the

wintering horizon.

 

There are so many of us.

I want to go home,

 

hold my children

make love to my wife

 

walk the tops of the Tararuas –

through yesterday’s snow –

 

see if it kills me.

 

 

 

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