Tonight is the buck moon but 
we are no longer 
worried about the shedding of antlers,
instead we sit on the edge 
of a fountain with 
our feet rippling in stars 
like the hunters of Artemis, 
our bodies crescent 
and notched 
and flung 
into the luminous void. 
We are Cezánne’s bathers 
without the artist’s possession, 
no outside gaze inflicted, 
our nakedness
entirely our own 
to cradle 
and hold, 
without 
apostrophe.