by Jeff Schiff.
Sated moon
what do I know
but that we must aim all
at making this
the right life—
and therefore pause
often
to conjure you
familiar corn and flax
shy
an hour’s drive
west of where I stand
How many in my city though
plummet their loss
from an easy ledge
never lulled by
plum compote
cast beneath nightlight
their ill-nurtured reveries
giving way to asphalt
or
more likely
poured
concrete