The Moon

Each night the moon cools the sun-cooked / Goodies of the world, pats and shapes / With weathered hands the dough of grief, / And swathes gently the embarrassed / Loneliness of middle age, so / That again the desired words / Are said on balconies, and faded / Eyes glitter with hope. The leper / Dreams of his own wedding day; with / Unflawed arms and legs he sports on / His bridal bed, and his girl is / So beautiful, her head thrown back / In laughter. Not even the new / Planetarium that smells of / Chrome and rexine can change the moon / And its ancient ways, its measured / Tread. It is a trained circus dog / That shall never miss its hoop. // Endlessly healing, it waits for / The new day’s wounds, just a witch who / Fattens on others’ mishaps, lying in / Wait behind the mountains for its / Appointed hour, then emerging / Round-faced like a female seer to / Seek out the sad and if all else / Fail, prescribing a draught of / Lunacy to remove the pain.