On a drive, I see cut a
high crescent anchor of the sky –
the streetlights leave their trails.
She moon appears and dissappears
behind a bus. Behind buildings.
But constant as force, strong
as day and night. She wyrds
into the middle of all skies.
And this is comfort and terror,
as she draws away and away
aeons shrink and we vanish. The end
of things and fate, the end.
But always the moon in the growing dark.
Always. Respect of existence for rock.
The dog shakes and I wait for my drink
and ice cubes float above the glass.
Poems drip from me slowly as cold pitch.
The world changes.