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.