Scents of raspberry and the slate moon
creep out from the woods.
The hinges of guarded minds collapse,
and the maples wear rusting gloves.
In the Atlantic night,
in the soothing pools
of your rustling hands,
I can see the moon in your face,
the strength of willow in your
collarbones.
Ribbons of moonlight tumble
over the basement window
into your moody hair.
Streams of moonlight trickle
over your trembling breath,
trickle over your trembling breast,
pull me,
pull me into the tides of
your drowning eyes.

Seth Jacob Felton Student at UNL, sophomore, undeclared major. Likes: writing, reading, eating. Dislikes: work, sports, idiots.