We walk along the canal at moonrise.
I ask you, “Is the moon stupid or wise?”
“Ask the moon,” you tell me. The moon replies,
“Ask a lightbulb or the sun. My light lies.”
We wonder how bright it is on Saturn
When here each summer the forests burn.
For now, the evening is cool and dry,
The canal, silent, still, reflects the sky,
The nighthawks don’t know how to whir or fly,
And nowhere is there written the word “why.”
It’s said time is what happens when nothing
Else does, but I think all’s a spinning ring,
Invisible sound, a silent seeing,
A tiny moon dangling on nervous string.
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