From the tawny lightfrom the rainy nightsfrom the imagination findingitself and more than itselfalone and more than aloneat the bottom of the well where the moon lives,can you pull me into December? a lowlandof space, perception of spacetowering of shadows of clouds blown uponclouds over new ground, new madeunder heavy December footsteps? the onlyway to live?
The flawed moonacts on the truth, and makesan autumn of tentativesilences.
You lived, but somewhere else,your presence touched others, ring upon ring,and changed.
Did you thinkI would not change? The black moonturns away, its work done.
A tenderness,unspoken autumn.
We are faithfulonly to the imagination.
What theimagination seizesas beauty must be truth.
What holds youto what you see of me isthat grasp alone.
