the edges that were there, hidden by a cheesecloth placed lightly over them, have been rounded.

i read a book of poetry today.

a recurring image was the moon of the fingertips.

the white nails peaking out, waning and waxing but never full, never even half.

sometime between waxing and waning i found her.

or she found me. depending on the way you look at it.

i trailed mud across the carpet today.

i tried cleaning it, too.

i looked in the mirror today, bending my left ear forward and over, and found the bump.

i cant see the scars, though others can, but i can see the bump.

artifact left from surgeries done long ago.

there was no moon tonight. cloudy because of the rain, rain because it was cloudy. wet and dark and the pavement didnt glisten but more it lost its edge.

some day i want to flow down a river, let it take me to the delta, sit back and watch the moon above go through its changes.

monthly changes in her as well and i felt her belly for it one night. she said there were no cramps. that it was waning.

my hand, always called a childs hand, looked so big against her lower belly. fingertips brushing the edges of pelvis.

my own moons glowing there in the night.

i was waning, as well.

time has passed and she has passed and i trim my nails to a shorter extent these days.

and she is softer, the edges i loved are gone, as is the cheesecloth.

she is pregnant.