The full moon has punched a hole in our window.
We are trying to sleep but it is all over us, pale rider, wild.
Shadows are also collaborating, wallows and seepings.
The room is like a negative of a room.
By three o’clock it is coming in a different window.
We have rotated on this raft while we did sleep.
Dear heart, dear heart, will we stop in the morning?
How will we adjust to the two other moons, recently discovered?
The old collisions, the splinterings, still
hanging with us, circling between heaven and earth.
It is all so dangerous, and the reminder in the morning!
The big moon starving after such plenty.
Who can think about the moon for very long? It’s good for poems
and lovers, but what if you’ve been married for years?
Good for astonishment, but then it goes on,
leaving you barely enough
to go to the bathroom without turning on the light.
I see you, wearing your paleness, your reverse self slowly crossing
the bottom of the bed. You are walking on the moon.
The powder of asteroids and meteors is on you
as if you were a baby, old man, bent on not waking me up.