By CL Bledsoe
If you’re looking for moonbeams, you’re blinking up the wrong horse. It’s not even night, here. That planet you see in the evenings hovering is actually Venus. Notice how far it remains from your fin-gers. A girl I once loved told me that. Let us consider the weight of evening air on the already swollen glands, the sweep of the breeze across reddening skin. Leaves dropping, still green, whose crunch underfoot will reveal only headaches and runny noses. Likewise baseball caps as serving any purpose other than covering receding hairlines, the wriggle of flesh in jeans drifting forever further from your straining thumbs. It was the taste you missed most at night.