It is late enough
so that the dew has patterned
in the leaves
beside the automatic garages.
Your faces
parked in its caresses.
The door controls
searching for
cottages on the moon.
I step into them
your stones too young
to not be water.
They skip behind me
and my sister’s shadow
through the new shopping mall
with my lists of things to buy
and my single domino.

Joel Ephraims reads 'To The Girls With The Emeralds'