Thursday, October 29, 2009

Lunar Tercets

Things are not as we would have them be. / The moon is not a yellow sow /

hung from a meat hook // on a drab shed wall: it is a moon. /

Ashes do nothing / while we sleep: they are trees. //

Satellites are not boys circling the low-back chairs /

and record heaps of their drunken masters: they are machines. /

The board-hipped distended form stepping in the foam. //

is not someone going to wet her legs / but no one, phantom without live taxis. /
she thinks, Ships in the night are cruel ships. //

Even if, her left ear aimed at the brack / even if the claps and peeling lulled /

she would not hear the canvas smack //

there would be no din in the hull /

no luminations in the masts: /

tonight the moon soils its pallet //

and what will emerge in the light by my bedside but No One, /

her gown ratty from seawater and sand and from bedless cubicles /
bedowned by whirling feathered things.

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