HORSES AT MIDNIGHT, NOT A SLIVER OF MOON

by Lyn Lifshin

maples, rain soaked
would blur car lights
if there were any
somewhere, the
sound of a train.
Then I was a long-
legged beauty. Then
my hair was fire.
The rain erased
the space between
our bodies. Later
you write I was
stunning. Too late,
too long after I
didn’t imagine that


*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm