It was an illusion, walking
home afterwards, eyes wild wet.
The moon was large and Hollywood yellow
and beneath this,
in a bus shelter, two teens kiss,
lit by the shelter light
but from this angle, from Sorrow Hill,
I cannot see the fluorescent strip and so
it looks as though they are lit by the moon,
this paper moon that the clouds that rain on me
have yet to reach.
I want to laugh, to shout to them that
this isn’t real, that the parents have
left and the caretakers of this world will
stack the chairs and take down and fold
away this paper moon before this
kiss dries on your lips, grows old.