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  • for Charles Schirmer

    A net of clouds
    snares the moon
    lifts it struggling
    from the sky
    to gasp and flop
    at my feet.

    I slip it gently
    back into black waters.
    It turns belly up
    for just a moment,
    rights itself,
    and glides strongly
    through the deep, fast
    currents of the night.

    Only once, half mocking,
    does it leap again
    above the surface,
    twists
    to flash the brilliance
    of its belly, plunges
    into the darkness again.


    Mary Stebbins Taitt
    originally published in POETPOURRI, 1990
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