Beggars
For us the grey moon has turned
full circle, the mountains lie
helpless and green as turtles on their backs
in a last, blood-puddled
final pang of death. Clouds hook
death on the moon, the four feet lie
gentle as stone in the shell
—turtle that nature had mottled!
Here by the river, this old beat-up log
—bones of a tree—
we sit silent and haunch-eyed
beggars for an alm
from each other—we do not understand:
tongue-tied and begging like foreign seas,
such lonely, such impotent seas
beggard and calm.
Night folds over us, moonless,
blood all gone in the shrill of death,
crescent hung over with clouds
like a shade drawn,
drawn deep and final: on its face the leering
shamelit mouths and eyes
that can not let us reason together our love
until, dark shames gone,
we smash this stone of lies.
