Sick of the yellow moon,
Its firefly light ignored by drunkards.
Mention the moon and you become a fool.

I am a fool, constantly and ever stupid,
Attempting at the wonder of a mere moon
Or the sublimity of quiet clouds as
They pass between astronomical distances
With only the help of a little wind
On a cold night. You were my little
Wind, and I the fool, large and ugly
As the everyday.

And now our small musics.
Passing in store aisles or a little
Comment at a restaurant, you who
I recognize in all women remain
Too kind. This jazz in the hospital,
The flowers at the prison, your
Little lips. How your beauty
Thinks of everything but ‘beauty,”
How your lips cautioned mine
Against hate.

Too traveled now, the two of us,
To know the old phone numbers.
Too traveled now, the world among us,
To ring like bells for the limit of our old youth.