East Window, Moon
It shadows the bed with a lattice of light,
rising slowly, laboriously, late.
I’m in a new house, unfamiliar to my
as I walk through the dark of it at night.
Closer to death I want to know great faith and great doubt.
What no one taught me, that’s what I
want to remember,
a storehouse for the infinite
I have always been alone, and I have never been alone.
What I used to call the self is a windowing of light