moon at morning

Ghostly chalk rounded low in bluest
sky, seeing, while the gulls circle
inland—lost, you think, though they know,
they must, where they’re going. The women
now pinning up their washing, a tin
basin, a caboose or a tugboat, forms
of future in the distance. Found,
you think, though you couldn’t say exactly
where they are. There was a place where you
were walking, though now, and now, it’s fading
—it’s fading, will be gone by the time
you arrive. Love there persisting
when love has almost died, when the dark it knew
has died, and still it waits, the white conscience.



From RED ROVER (University of Chicago Press, 2008)