Dear Horizon:



When full moon appears from your left elbow
during our evening drives home
it dashes our distance to pieces
that separate but do not scatter:
a half carrot in a lunch bag
a football-field-length phone call
the birthday of Edward Neary, co-worker,
and a maple donut solo in a pink box ―
all grazing our mental fields
alone, yet unwilling to leave the herd
which we know is simply because of the interval
(exact) between each ray of reflected light
and the gossamer facial features
of that satellite rock,
the new dusk shadows below your clavicle
that relinquish half their darkness
to the moon’s ascending draw
as she departs from you,
illusioned smaller distances between ourselves
and that illuminated saucer,
horizon’s body gift
to an insignificant evening.


Has anybody ever, down all crisscross
tracks of time here,
introduced themselves to you
“Hi, I’m Robert – and you?”
or wanted to take you home
after drinks beside your heart-shaped
mountain lake?

[An observation]

I’ve noticed how birds
and also planes and clouds and satellites
are always flying into you.
I see how you accept them
from all angles, glowing at night
or glinting in morning sun,
wheeling or gliding
or settling among a flurry
into the vast nest of yourself,
into the dark horizontal curtain
back of which lies
everywhere else
around this strangely curvy


Surely it is the gentlest lovemaking
the way you take the sun into you
each night, both of you
lost to us for hours
until he goes his way each morning
an upward path that is away
and also toward you.

[A realization]

I thought you were dodging
my eye, in hiding
for a rare hour of solitude —
until I remembered:
you are anything met
by sky.
The blooming bay tree, ivy-covered fence,
door jamb and hawk
are you. The place in my eye
where atmosphere’s color
meets the last outer atom
of all I can touch.

[Talking about me]

How strange to be myself horizon,
head jutting into the blue,
a line of cirrus
whispering through my hair
and the slight glassy gleam of my eye
accepting the flight of two distant birds.


and when at last the wrinkling moon,
now waning, crawls composedly back into your shadows
in her ever alluring reincarnate lifework
and pieces fall back together,
like puzzle bits perfectly fitted
but still showing all their rills and seams ―
carrot, phone, birthday, donut
all held again in a portrait
of living here, you and me, horizon,
making our own edges
again and again
perfectly delineated
and lit, even without
that loving moon,
even in the circling darkness
held, adored,
encompassed in my eye.


From it is enough to see your hand by. Copyright © Lainey S. Cronk 2016