2 LA POEMA DE LA LUNA
It is as if
nothing is empty
only that

& the sky opens out where
no reason to hope it isn't anything but
to call out so clear
no one will know.
One experience turns
as day starts to dip in &

no one really knows much more. Faint voices
above on the sign, dark on the wet road where
they made us all. They
slowly fell. He stood above it
like an open bird's bill
for there can't be any new impediments.

The clearing —
& sense rises up somewhere.
We are lovely, & we rest, ignorant.
We shall walk unharmed
you know, like we can't be.
I wrote no poems.
It's like that:
the words might save the place but they'll have to go louder.
Not until you've forgotten:
this is rain, this is sudden appearance.
I was the light shining through that dew
too, a love, a moving to
& in the silence
in half-light
sweet luscious ooze within the silent wood.
The whole lot resolves to nothing else more, now does it?
It is the light itself
to treat such loss. We burnt
that composes us.

Like.
Eating an ice-cream I was at peace & at one.
They talk of truth or lies, or of
"antel' alba sa, la luna".
They don't fit simply into words.

Not from devotion but from despair, to another night, another night, another day.
No poem, no pattern of it
in the darkness.
The good result of its completion
will excuse us all.