a pretty pair of gloveson the Parliament-manthat was cursing the poorhow they fight till they dropthough their eyes be unluckyas if they had no breadthe white hearse of a moonset over a sad housedown into the morning tide
we might have grownwhite and thin as ropeover and over the groundand had other bodiesa secret to be hidbut not under the housenot in the light ofa would-be moonships of iceguns without bullet to grieve
going into the countrywe land in a mazethe good life is admirablebut for the old and illeven the half-mooncannot fit ingrown every daybelow in the cellar
Fleet with my word, I talkbodies out of their graves,which please me betterthan sitting in a dark place, not seeing.We stand and make the moon take to bed.
Carpenter, make mea door into my life.I am a crow, a plain old woman.I bring none but myself to dinnerby the light of the moon.Give me a further galleryin my good ear.
The hummingbird of day has yieldedto the hummingbird of night.With a single pair of feathers on his headhe flies on wings of mica& finds his way with eyesof yellow quartz.Unlike his daytime cousinhe doesn’t do battle:summer nights are short.Flowers uncurl after sunset just for him.Pry open the tightbud of his thorax,searching out the heart to eat for courage,& you won’t findanything that beats:a maze of dry husks filled with moonlight.
I took a barrel of oystersand observed how they cry:An Indian sold the moon.Men were hanged for a dogfouling the bed. All nightI dream that my wifemade me ill.
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