Rosemary Starace

Winter Moon

What is coming as this night arrives, the dusk alert
as a rabbit? I turn from you, a wind

slaps the side of my face—I don’t want to be
under your eye

startled and naked. Tonight must be a joke—no refuge
in the ice-white pastures,

the woods’ emptiness vivid. What it means
to be so penetrated

does not occur to the hills, your gaze
will not perturb them.