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The loon’s eye is a carmine moon.
Is a Mars. Stirs
in its orbit as the wind stirs the loose face
of the lake into haloes whose
arcs swell against each other until they disappear or
are blown into new diagrams, battle plans, lessons
for a war that cannot
reach us here, in this pocket of pine forest I tuck you into.
and snail, moth and bat, are reconciled, held
in the same dark mouth.
When you ask for a story, I
hum the names of lunar seas — Nubium, Imbrium,
Vaporum, Crisium —
which are not seas, whose
water is a dark silt, basalt
shallows empty enough to look like
a nose, eyes,
When you ask for a song, I sing about the hole in the bottom of the sea,
a lesson in
microscopy, in vertigo. O
Little eye, little eye, there’s always a further layer,
an infinite splitting, a tunneling. Sung,
just soft enough to sleep by. Is almost comfort. Almost rest.
The loon’s eye gleams and drifts on the lake like
a broken beacon
above a slow drain. Like a body orbiting a black hole. Wool
being drawn from a cloud to a thread to the pupil of a needle’s eye.
didn’t mean to make you cry. The lake is a lake, the loon a loon, the eye
was only ever an eye.
morning yawns in the sky.about the author