As if the moon could haul through you
Its tremor of light and stone,
Be cleared of sound. Plough
The mind's noise until it's a shine
In the purl of south-bending river that bears
Itself toward a blacker part of the forest.
If you hum, hum through the motes of air,
Perhaps your nerves will find at last
A tone to which they will succumb.
Be still. Be not so heavy-hearted
For a moment. All is not a tomb,
Blind sarcophagus staring dumb, thwarted
Pleasures nailed inside. These fireflies
Sweep their tracings on the evening.
Weep if you must, but board what falls
Away, abdomens flaring—
The brief, nomadic intervals.