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Behind the Moon (1992)


Halfway behind the moon,

halfway behind my head,
a right-side-up she-devil
in pigtails and pleated skirt
observed me for all it's worth.

She decided in her wisdom,
decided for herself,
I was too much of a prize,
overqualified for the "task."

Without even asking my name
she decided that the game
would better suit others
who better fit her hand.

(She held all the cards,
and two jokers in the box,
to boot),

Charades was played for hours
and she already knew too much.
too much about my life and goals,
too much of how my dreams unfold.

and every misconception
or mistaken notion
that circled inside my head
hidden halfway behind the moon,

I drank a drink, and ate a burger
but that wasn't nearly enough
to fill the emptiness I felt,
or sadness, that emanated
from the center of myself.

Then cool delight glanced my way
and then she spoke, "Good morning,"
she said, to my surprise
and I had to reply, "Hi,"
an almost obvious neutral lie.

Somehow, it had seemed worthwhile,
my mind had been read
and I was gentleman,
not Neanderthal after all.

It's times like these
that make me wonder
for truths that wander out,
from certain social circles
        in gaseous smoke and clouds.

I often wonder aloud
about fragile love puzzles
growing halfway inside my head,
hidden and out of reach
halfway behind the moon.



Glen Wheeler
Vancouver, 1992

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