The moonlight gets into our heads, no need to force it:
its potent-spirits dribble like a faucet.
Our long faces light up, unwrinkle, mist.
But could we bear it otherwise, unpissed?
lt's not just the madness of some horrid unction
composed of bursting ulcers (since pleasure too might
be on tap), nor of simple malfunction,
this anarchy, this chaos of the moonlight.
It's there in me! But what! A thing that can't quite
burst nor spread, some seething inner brew
whose name or substance l may never write.
Time wasted, time we leak away, run through.
A good thing the moon is frozen in its station!
May the attainable bubble down its flue
and offer the dusty soul its flighty salvation.

Translated of Daniel Hoffman

from:The Gettysburg Review, 2003