Fat Moon

It is all tone,
this cavorting

with the wild
and the weird:

It is all love.
Who would have

employed one
so given to

throwing their loom
into the river

and sleeping
spooned together

with the lawless
and the lewd?

So to become
a poet, why

not this
imperfecting

grace?
I could keep

my pages blank
with a strict

salute from
my pyjamas

and lay back,
listening to

the tree leaves
breathe.

And after
the Beloved came

with her
invisible breeze

to disturb
the record of

my blankness,
people would

stare
in awe of

how I let her
take me

in the open
air of

my emptiness,
grasp my

heart
with her nesting

claws
and make from

my blood
her ink.

To refuse
this wine,

to not do,
and let yourself

be done to,
this perfect

beauty of
the parched

mouth,
and all

that drives us
through

each other,
this is

the only
sin: The lamp

of the human
self

must be
driven

into the heart
of every

aching thing.
Fire possesses

love for itself,
it wants

only
to keep burning.

Throw yourself
into the arms

of the beloved's
life: She will

probably ask you
what took you

so long
and spend

a lifetime
showing you

your death.
How fertile!

How perfect
that things

have an end
and a beginning!

Where can I
meet you?

Isn't that
the point?


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