Late summer night

The moon tipped

ever so slowly

into a brown-bricked bed.

If only the night could have

gone on forever

but for the sure hastening

of that which had caused

its pale curved reflection

coming round.

And so the spell was broken

or not broken

by the rosemary scent

in her hair,

she passing by,

we heading home,

the cusp slipping in

the balance,

cool mists on cheeks

softening the moon-colored

hard edges.

Photo represents a place,

not the hour, a common 
spacetime discontinuity.