James Friedman
Speckled is the surface of the pale white moon
Who glows overhead in the night
Who hangs low over the ocean
Raising the young tide to come crashing toward the surf
Dusk speaks in hues of neon and lantern light
The whisper of back-alley rodents
The criminals
And the cats spurring in the streets
Something else sounds out amongst the symphony of the night
If my brain could show each scar
You inflicted in my dreams
Its surface would be dotted
Like craters on the moon