Night of four moons And a single tree, With a single shadow And a single bird.
I look into my body for The tracks of your lips. A stream kisses into the wind Without touch.
I carry the No you gave me Clenched in my palm Like something made of wax An almost-white lemon.
Night of four moons And a single tree At the point of a needle Is my love, spinning.
Someone has been turned down, and the poem stays inside that moment of rejection. The speaker has been told "No," and instead of arguing or pleading, they simply carry it around, a small pale thing held tight in the hand. The image of the wax-like, almost-white lemon is odd and precise: it suggests something sour, fragile, and a little unreal, a refusal that has started to feel like an object rather than a word.
The mood is hushed and strange. Everything is counted down to singles, one tree, one shadow, one bird, which makes the night feel stark and lonely. The speaker searches their own body for "the tracks of your lips," as if hoping some proof of the other person's touch might remain, and finds only a kiss that happens "without touch," like a stream meeting the wind. By the end, love isn't dead but balanced at the point of a needle, still spinning, neither fallen nor resolved. The title suggests an ending, yet the poem leaves the feeling suspended.