Moon coming with us a way | Tender and soft-edged, white and hazy against the dark blue evening sky, but not | really against | Shoulder to the door of my spirit | keep it closed forbidding | whatever wants to come through | but it wants | so hard | meaning I will be | very tired when this day ends | The moon is waning black | on hidden bleachers | I must carry it where I can | illicit and a sign | of my weariness to recall | those who labour against the sea | the grandeur of their slow | rock and haul | and the sea | wonderful in uncaring | A butterfly | bears down with | the weight of a bear, carcass of an ox or horse, of the dispassionate | city buildings with their rotas of exits, doors tufted with different purposes | the landscape slipping back into itself, into the watch | of other eyes | It is all the same thing, in other words, but then | who would need our poetry? | There is a sea’s | obtuse loveliness to the struggle | of this and that, the fight | to silence the animals or to bid them | speak with our voices | Carry the full moon | back to my bed once more, a bull | kicking and butting at the timbers | of the stall | and the tide | answering | If I could love again, the weight would feel different | tender and soft-edged, white and hazy, meaning | it is close, now, and wants so hard | to come through

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2013)