The earth shows her face to the moon.
Murderers are exposed
in light’s false astronomy of longing.
Lovers bare the silver oceans of themselves.
History, growing red in our shadow,
is written on that blood round pupil.
Take my hand.
You can see the moon rising
with our lives on it
and we are surrounded
by murder in the west
and rumors of war in the south.
The east’s old history repeats itself
and there are reports of guns in the north.
Take my hand.
This river beside us is singing.
It is saying, Yes
to our touching of hands,
this uprising of arms
around one another,
the hearts beating on this hemisphere
and that.
Yes, the moonlight of ourselves.
What roaring along the river.
What fire, the moon traveling.
What singing.
And there are more rivers than this.