by Anne Stevenson
Alive in the slippery moonlight,
how easily you managed
to hold yourself upright
on your small heels.
You emerged from your image
on the smooth fields
as if held back from flight by a hinge.
I used to find you
balanced on your visible ghost
holding it down by a corner. The blind
stain crawled, fawning, about you.
Your body staked its shadow like a post.
Gone, you leave nothing behind,
not a toe to hold steady or true
your image which lives in my mind.