the moon is shardish tonight
                it's a ravaging bleacher

its fingers go white over everything
                from Persia to Lyonesse

bonewhite and cloudwhite and eyewhite
                white as the sound

of one bent girder imperceptibly
                shifting over another

ravaging memory recalls

a bleacher beneath spring moon
the football field empty now
but for a few figures scattered
across the benches tangled there
as we were as we lay together
reaching beneath parkas
sweaters to touch warm flesh
kissing as usual under the white moonlight