7 June 2026

By Philip Kuepper

There was still
some of the spill of cream
of the full moon on the water,
come first light.
Dawn was fuzzy with the dusk
of the last of night.
The hour was touched with loss,
the lost found in the exchange
of light between moon and sun,
the loss of parting, such as when
a boat departs a port,
a rower, the end of a race,
a singer, from a song,
music from the instrument,
when the last note is played.

As for the rower,
the blade of the oar separates
from the water at the last stroke,
the rower, from the shell,
the shell, from the river.
Loss,
the moon’s light fading into the sun,
the moon’s light becoming
a ghost, the spill of it
over the rim of the chalice of night,
disappearing into the ocean of day.
From the spillage of light
we row from sleep to waking.
We row up out of the depths
of the unconscious. Our arms,
for an instant, in the first
conscious second,
flail the air, like oars
we have lost control of.
Then we settle the shell of our body
on the ocean of day. We have departed,
safely,
the shore of night.

(30 May 2026)