when the moon is slivered,
shed its gown
to veil a scarf thinly floating,
will you turn ‘way my touch
who wants only to stand
in the fountain you rain,
hiding barely visible crescents
in the dark lake water of pupils.
Unmoving at such late hours
when the fisherman’s gone
to bed, not stirring.
I’ve seen those pupils bring men to silence
and their rivers of pulse delayed.
Can I touch you
when you are stir-still,
frozen galleon crossing the Atlantic,
encompassing the sleep of home-sick thinkers?
let us pray.
And if not tomorrow night
then I will become a monk
and live in the monastery by that lake,
by that lake where the water’s still.
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