The men talking
on the porch in the pool of light.

Things they have said, things
that reach out to wealth,
to greed –

Beyond, the night
clings to a yellow moon.

It is the kind of talk that folds
over itself, rising
to mere noise –

In the darkness leaves touch
and part, lights
of cars pass.

And in the blur of words,
the way those hands move
is a thing to watch –

It is a thing to hear
the leaves shift in the night,
to believe in that yellow moon.