The moon is a love letter

That slides from its envelope of clouds

From me

To you.



The two feet that carry me
Through my Sunday-blessed,
Sun-blessed world,
They carry me past those two squirrels,
Chattering in their tree-war.

Those two dogs, one black,
His brother white,
Chasing eternally cheerful
After the ball, the ball,
The wonderful ball
Look look look there it goes –

And the two lovers talking
Side by side under the sleeping bag
On the stage in the park.
They know they have a good thing,
However their hearts came by it.

And there were two robins,
But now there are three,
Worm-grubbing with sidelong glances,
Maybe to balance me,
Here alone in the afternoon:
But they’re wrong, for I am sitting with the sun,
Chance companions,
Both beaming,
The two of us.

None of which is to say
That I would never seek another
To walk by the side of.
And she and me
Would walk under the sun where
He waits, expectant, now that I have someone else,
Waiting for his own beloved moon.
That’s the way the world works.

Tomb Planting

When I die,
Bury me with a book in my hand,
A sword at my side,
And a word in my mouth.
Sing no grand songs
About the passing of things
But place one dry rose
Across my stone bed
And when I am asleep
I will go
And visit the place where it was planted,
And look at the moon
Under the soft, cool darkness
And wonder
About the sweetness of the world.