I’ve heard her call through the slats in the fence. Will she knock on my door and lie with me? Will she meet me naked in the shower between soap suds and cold running water? That would be grand. I'll write about that. Inspiration’s the sin of my illicit wish.

If only I could return, she says, and take him into the light freeze of my love. Lunnae love. I hope to see him slacken the pace of his royal death wish by a few millennia more of my crystal charms and the agile ghosts I bring to dance.

I am that crescent radiance you see before midnight, stepping into her robe of clouds before she reappears disrobed, pleased to take in the supple figure she sees reflected in the clear blue lagoons. And all her darling sun can do is burn jealously through his dawns.