Fool in the Dew
Some fool is sitting
up in the crescent moon,
swinging his legs in her smile.
Howling his heart out,
he’s like a trumpet,
carved out of marble
of moon stuff.
I have taken some notes,
from owlets, bats or their like.
They’ve trained me to write
on this shiny substance
you get inside a tear.
I can’t read it –
the drop is exquisitely small
and writing on what water is
extinguishes, quick as spark.
Anguish is surface tension
on the round body
of rolling tears.
They run down lipstick
left on a wine glass,
turned upside down
for a night in the garden.
The fool in the moon
tumbles headlong
through transparent dark.
This moment, his moment;
He licks the lip print
off the globe of the glass.
His tongue draws
a splinter of salt
from each tear.
from ‘The Suspension of the Moon’