The sudden slip of moon that turns the sun
into a wreath of fire. We’re waiting for that moment
during the eclipse when—at once—all the birds stop singing
Plague on the winds, in the air,
on our tongues in the midst of old conversations.
Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.
Against blue dusk
a bat dives, veers
over the bank, dips,
above the library
in his gentlest voice, reminding them
about change, about fallow fields and the quiet
everything needs to grow stronger
I’ll lean upon her breast and I’ll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o’sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.