Entranced by the ersatz girl, an old man’s heart
wells upward into ecstasy. He stands—
a mast in unseen currents—a world apart,
blanched below the chalky night’s commands.
He floats below wisterias and willows,
their moonlit drapery pulling him along
toward her curious gaze. Her posture follows:
she bares her chest as if the wind were strong—
a child, a sacrifice of blind abandon,
she calls to him: the rocks are not your end.
The hillside, mute and stony, makes its summons
over the ones who falter, break, and bend.
He nears the edge; the dark would take him in.
She calls again—the rocks are a benediction.