The blank
moon sheds
it clothes
all over
my lawn
then melts
into the shallow
bath of itself

Longing
flushed
with wine
perambulates
the garden

knocks
on my door
loosens
its shoulders
and opens

The blue
heart breaks
and pools
on the floor

Night lays
my body down
in the heart
of the house
and begins
its bald
ministrations

Gold
on my eyes
I lie
on the ribs
of the stone boat
which floats
in full-bodied
silence
toward
the island
of reeds

I bear
in mind
the heft
of the tongue
and articulate
the slenderest
of figures—
nostalgia
for the bed
of singing
grasses