The unblinking condition of the moon should give us pause.
Because somewhere in some space an eye will never close,
ever lubricated, and a finger will always be moist with paint.
As was once said, the moon is buoyant eggshell on the pond
at night, an eye that will never stop following you down
the mooned road under stars where off across the silver field
an army crouches. All you hear is the wind, a faint sigh
carried from a garden you remember, and the sky grows
over you like an idea you once had of living inside a whale.
For some reason, the inside of a whale, you remember,
is night sky luminous. The gut of a whale is planetarium.
And so you start off once more, with footsteps in your ears
journeying inside the safety of the whale’s belly. The wind
dims, the army watches with moons in their eye sockets,
and you carry–arrangements, gardens–down the silver road.
or
The unblinking condition of the moon should give us pause.
Because somewhere in space an eye will never close
and a finger will always be moist with paint.
As was once said, the moon is buoyant eggshell
on the pond at night, an eye that will never stop
following you down the mooned road under stars
where off across the silver field an army crouches.
All you hear is the wind, a faint sigh
carried from a garden you remember
with green moons orbiting and the sky grows
over you like an idea you once had of living inside a whale.
For some reason, the inside of a whale,
you remember, is night sky luminous.
The gut of a whale is planetarium.
And so you start off once more, with footsteps
in your ears, journeying inside the safety
of the whale’s belly. The wind
dims, the army watches with moons in their eye sockets,
and you carry–arrangements, gardens–over the powdered road.
