The moon. The moon

is a sheet of paper

una hoja de papel

white as winter cover-

ing cattails, rail yards,

cold as the icicle

on the eave and far

away tan lejos como

all your anxiety. You

don’t want this poem

like you     don’t want

the moon. You fear

alone, how

alone is a sound-

less vacuum even

Bay-windows and

the dog can’t rattle.

I lie. The moon

is a gold dome, an up-

turned steeple a hair

the razor misses. Form

behind window, bell

without sound, what use

weathervane? I can

still tell, am still cast-

ing this out to you.