Rachel B. Glaser

Under the soft foam of the moon

in my locked car
on my dead phone
I noodle for the stranger
inside the house, my family sleeps
everyone I love is asleep
but I’m looking at the thin hands of the bushes
noodling along
feeling moony
just barely charming a stranger
distracting him from the old cure of sleep
feeling Shakespearian
because the sky looks painted
and my voice is delivering
I’m carving a hideout in the stranger
homing up to him
walking the dark path between us
seeing my face in things that don’t have my face
I can feel the sleep of my aging neighbors
the luxurious seclusion
the sky isn’t black or grey
it’s that good fur
that far fabric
of soft light
and my voice rings its reoccurring realizations
with dawdling human flair
a pretend music
to touch the stranger
strangers are half symbol half animal
and this one breaks in air
as I enter the night breathing
with the assured heart of a trespasser
filled with the lonely lives of dogs
curdled excess charm and a childless levity
I walk like an ancient camera is tracking me
is still interested when I bore myself
a night camera set to record the moon