Evening

the sky is mine, I claim it.

The odd dartings of bats, even, are mine; I like them less than the birds

and much less than fireflies.

the single insect suspended in lucid air

between two fronds of warm palm

is also mine.

I want all the pieces of this.

The moon sits on a spiral staircase tonight

and you talk of a trip from years ago.

and yes, I want that long-ago time-

if I walk back into all those years,

I hope

the moon would be the same.

Winter

It has been nineteen days of waiting
a film of oil coats my thoughts
in slippery rainbows.
Come back to me,
I want the bubbles to burst.

It's time

I like the way
I have taken on some of your habits.
I have taken to showering
in the dark.
At the precise hour
when the twilight
flows like a purple scarf,
I step into the water-
the soap is a translucent mint-scented fish in my slippery hands
and the moon is so faint
I want to bite it out of the sky.
I owe this to you.

Keeping House

On the grand steppes

of the poetry of other poets

I go far beyond

Even though I can see

the white haze of noon on

the city street

I still go far beyond.

I must return

to the buying of onions and coffee.

Postage stamps.

The Companion

The moon is now tired

of rolling in the sky

like a hurt and broken bead.

I reach out

through the window of the rain

pluck it out

and place it on top of my half-read book.

It beats there,

like a pulse.