The Moon

The Moon, the moon,
her bone song is
on the edge of hearing.

Bats can hear it,
and voles, raccoons,
a soft whirring, calling
her creatures
into the room of milk.

She throws her sheets over
the old furniture of my life
and I want to awaken
as one of her own:

a moth whose pale green
shimmers with the borrowed device of owls—
and sees;

a barred or great horned owl
whose shadow is the dark eye of moonsnow drifting
soundlessly over the beach,
acute to the gorgeous music
of the tiny hearts.

The leaves turn over their hands
and are washed and
washed and
cannot imagine an end
to this caressing.

I go on
living, burning
in the long milky flame.

In the moon’s tongue
the word for end or
empty is new.