the old ones.

these grainy tactile films take contact
pull it into your sight and sing it out
it plays without triteness or fickle guile
the people are commiserative, flawed and bright
and as they flicker by, they are winning,
without nostalgia or irony.

'plot for days' she comments
smirking at this line or that
the dialogue is tense, or sometimes far fetched
but its exactly what fits, and it does
the particular oldness of it, the forgotten wit
and even the new talkies owe them heaps of craft and gold.

Moon Bathing

Our bright orb lolls in the quiescent sections of the sky
between patrolling clouds it hovers
casting a soothing reflection down on the ripe glassy surface of the lake.
Its after midnight but our tanned summer bodies bob in pale luminescence.
The bustle and chop of the summer lake is calm now, and we drink it in in all of its subtly.
We play games and splash the warm water, but we are here for the moon
its mysterious radiance, its transformational force.

The still waters stretch out in front of us as the moon breathes its light.
The velvet of northwoods waters in August laps our skin, mild and silky,
and we gaze at the enormous face, the full moon's patterns of shade.
Maybe the lunar gaze is just the noon Sun's reflection,
a celestial mirror, angled into our atmosphere once a month
but here in this water, I feel its pull, the lightness of my limbs.
surely its touch is singular when moon bathing on Moon Lake.