La lune

The moon gleams in dolorous waves,
lulling the sea to sleep in the still muted
tide of night. Everything is quiet, slipping
into darkness, stupefied by dreams. Everything
spilling towards daybreak. Hush, hush. Listen
to the murmur of mice in their midnight beds,
the berceuse of night-blooming flowers, craning
towards the celestial. Listen to the hymns of
dark woods, the siren song of the salt sea, rippling
lyrics of love to mermaids. Now the owl puts forth
his question, which is answered by shadow
and a kind of gravity made possible
only by starlight.

moon, pond

In my memory everything is flecked with gold,
even the moon and the breasts of the singing birds.

Only the white birches are immune, and the black clouds
that drift over the moon, then assimilate into night.

When I feel lonely I like to come here. When I cannot
sleep the moon draws me into her distended embrace.

Moon, mother. Tell me what you have witnessed here or
elsewhere. Tell me where it hurts. Tell me, what should I do.

I have been wandering for many moons.
The corridors of my dreams are dark and lonely.

Of the two birches kissing between the water, I cannot
tell which is the reflection, for both are flecked
with gold.

The Contest

The moon is too early too eager too ambitious
       to get a leg up, a planetary orbit up
                     on the happy rival: the sun

The blue-orange light with the orb half stuck in it –
                     It looks ridiculous,
              banal, superficial

Why can’t things let other things be?
                     Why this need – always – for superimposition,
                                   for competition, for greedy knowledge, for pretension?

       I should have looked away long ago
                     Now I can only wander, a blind Tiresias
       And the sun and the moon, laughing, mocking,
              floating like disembodied heads