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Nights like this: on the cold apple-bough
a white star, then another
exlploading out of the bark:
on the ground, moonlight picking at small stones
as it picks at greater stones as it rises with the surf
laying its cheeck for moments on the sand
as it licks the broken ledge, as it flows up the cliffs,
as it flicks across the tracks
as it unavailing pours into gash
of the sand-and-gravel quarry
as it leans across the hangared fuselage
of the crop dusting plane
as it soaks through cracks into trailers
tremulous wit sleep
as it dwells upon the eyelids of sleepers
as if to make amends.
"Full Moon and Little Frieda"
A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket -
And you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming - mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.
Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath -
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'
The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.