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Rising Moon
TWO POEMS
RISING MOON
Iam at once the cup of the white lily
And the brown earth under
Standing against a tree and a black mountain
And the white moon thunder
Listen the end . . . listen the end of silence.
"Here" is a word for wait and a gray tether.
If you would come, there would be something broken.
There would be end of gray by a gold feather.
lam the faun, the doe, and the lone hunter,
And the lost bird flying.
You are at once the hurt and the last pleasure
And the long, long crying.