Folly
A jagged edge of sunset gold
cuts the hillside.
Was it folly to build
this land a tower,
that it might fold
its heavenly green
over and over,
peer through
a monocle of window
to meet
the curious
and fanciful?
Remember the night
we tested its magic,
walked in a snowflake
chain of bodies,
stopped before
getting too close?
Remember the shape
of a witch’s shadow,
hat like a dagger,
arms rising to curse
our wicked intrusion,
her figure exposed
before flight?
K. S. Moore’s poetry has recently appeared in Atlanta Review, Mookychick, The Honest Ulsterman, Fly Press Magazine, Boyne Berries and The Stinging Fly. Work is upcoming in The Stony Thursday Book, Verity La and with Broken Sleep Books. Blog: http://ksmoore.com/