The moon dissolves in mist
and flower; the window balances the outside dark
against a single lamp—
and underneath, a rose. Some nights, I know
three things: the being rush,
bone sequence, hide and blood, bliss of these rudiments,
from them to make a life.
And then, some slower
things: the being wait, a portal, mouthful, ache;
the knob that clicks comes loose; the hinge that stalls
holds hard. Pause, pause.
The evening brings the undisguise of things:
the bow tie stars, the myrtle crook still blooming,
humped beside the drive;
the moonlight satisfies the alcove glow of what I know.
The being pluck,
the toughest being of all, out of the garden lush,
ten thousand reds, ten thousand fickle golds, toadstools
on grass. At last, the unequal rose
climbs on the bow-blade clip, a summer-seize.
I do not fear the many from which I come.
I do not fear the many to which I go.
Some nights, a single look for everything I lose,
a single hope
by which I'll candle back.
A nipple dribs its moon, the moonbeam dries, lipborne
into a child.
Between the moon and rose, the hourglass.