The moon appeared in the hot
afternoon, a fraction of itself
faded and tentative, the air
shimmering in waves
rising from the salt pan-dried
lake whose glare offsets
the hard crystals in my eyes
a pale ghost without the force
to intrude into reality like
when it used to represent
an absence I once felt, now
just a careless habit of thought.
I ignore it mostly, concentrate
on shore birds— willits, phalaropes
wavering in the scope at the salty
edge, the crescent a distraction
from feather markings and beaks
the ghost exiled to a distant shore
where the sand shines at dawn
on different species— an East coast
as alien as cardinals where the moon
must rise out of the sea like a red
coal and the ghost hardly knows
it means him.