The Moon In The Man (2004)

Why shouldn’t the moon
ache and throb pale
turbines of desire through us,
torn as we from our source
and destined as we
to wax and wane
high and low? The moon
confirms Pascal’s adage
that there’s a God-shaped hole
in every human heart. It
sails ever homeless in
that milky desire for harbor,
yet folds its wings just where
we shore and at
last touch the sleeping
other - God, Beloved,
the next poem. This tells me
that the moon is love’s
most shadowy sprite,
& is that
echo’s duration in
every wave’s curl
toward collapse.
Mark no angels in the
moon’s westward sail:
it’s motion is my own,
voyager from love
toward love’s
apple island inside
and beyond the next
glowing kiss. And lamp
these emulsions high
with that phosphor which
as all that it reaches for,
welling pure milk from
the pap and lap of God,
sustaining our dreams
and teasing out every
tender blossom of infinte
night. Wild is the moon’s
aura, light by which I
here write, blue-black as
the ocean womb that gave
birth to it, rimmed with
paling dawn, too hot to
the touch glowing around
you as you turn away
from me in sleep
in the high majescule
of one fading sigh.