Butter Moon

The car floats along this lonely road.
I'm distracted from every task.
My eyes follow the low butter moon,
dodging through the thickest shroud.
Gold-lined black glides,
its dark spots trip across the sunken plate.
Night's own brushstrokes splinter the light,
too shy to show its tawny face.
I think I fear myself of late,
a love afraid to play, like the yellow orb that hides
in the clouds, fighting its own expression.