The hole the full Moon leaves leads
from our side there, carrying life
to that other place like a train
across France, everyone and every
loving thing, books from shelves
and the goblet of youth from the hand
of a naked boy or girl or man
or woman. Like we are the bottom
of a well staring up at light.
As if it is never enough that children
are removed from their mother's breast.

Gone forever now is the star's confession
at the pillars of creation
where we stand fast, nebulas of clouds
on our heads, the globule glad
with its look of look ma, no hands,
smiling from the basement of heaven.
A lack of soil means one thing, it means
no need to fill your nights with dreams.

Make it an acknowledgement of death.
The moon itself is dead inside itself.
We stand up at dawn and remember
to ponder the sons of slaves who flew
along paths lit by that same moon.

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