Aim Of The Moon's Glow

don't aim for my ears.
don't aim for my ears.
don't.
I don't want to hear.
but
with your call heard above the willow,
I visualize
flowing, straw so smooth, lace
a tender chin, frame rose jowls
jutting beneath that bay of blue.

don't aim for my eyes.
don't aim your eyes
at mine. don't.
I don't want to know
that you
could really see me now,
after all these years, like this,
alone and wishing...

flow, straw so tender in willow
aims at me,
some isle of a man
who cannot run,
could not visualize your arms
open to rigid oak,
a dense wood,
that could shadow your form
if the sun had hit us
just right.

I don't want to hear hello.
I didn't want to see you go,
flow fading into night,
alight in dreams
beneath a moon's glow
a fog-head still clearly envisions.

no aim.
no aim.
no flow.
why must the moon still glow?