The Moon from Any Window

The moon from any window is one part

whoever’s looking.

The part I can’t see

is everything my sister keeps to herself.

One part my dead brother’s sleepless brow,

the other part the time I waste, the time

I won’t have.

But which is the lion

killed for the sake of the honey inside him,

and which the wine, stranded

in a valley, unredeemed?

And don’t forget the curtains. Don’t forget the wind

in the trees, or my mother’s voice saying things

that will take my whole life to come true.

One part earnest child grown tall

in his mother’s doorway, and one a last look

over the shoulder before leaving.

And never forget it answers to no address,

but calls wave after wave

to a path of thirst. Never forget

the candle climbing down

without glancing back.

And what about the heart

counting alone, out loud, in that game

in which the many hide from the one?

Never forget the cry

completely hollowed of the dying one

who cried it.

Only in such pure outpouring

is there room for all this night.