The moon
three-fourths lit
shines high up
in this early
evening sky.
A rice cake stuck
on a sepia wall
bitten by
a hungry lover
on his way out.
I cross the bridge
after Ela with
an invisible bird
flying behind me
singing.
But all I could think of
are possible stories
of how a piece of cold
heartless cement
could be named after
that sweetest
of all summer fruits.
To do
I’m not completely sold to the last stanza.