So the Moon Tried

Although tears of tin dripped like mermaid’s

Wounds on coral, no one mentioned

Real hunger as they fed on information.

 

So they went on like drums hit

With the same stick, and paced

Like the same pickets nailed and nailed and nailed

To the same moving stock of crossbars.

 

But there was no sadness at that.

 

Even when she came,

The woman from on high, nimbus-laced Diana,

Moonborn, hot and native,

Not even she, who is always at home

In the arson of stars, who throws

Shells of jasper each night against their

Window panes and sends wisdom’s scent across

Porches�"not even she, no,

With thyme and chives tied in ribbons on her head,

With melting hands like Pernod fairies and lips

Like spears of some sugared overworld that are

Alive in scarlet flesh when our fires burn at her,

Flesh all inked with secrets

Growing and dancing and incanting, no,

Not even she

Who knew no time for salted pleasures on earth

Could wake the piscine schools from

Happy adventures in the fact-worn dream farms.

So she returned, wishing for eclipse,

Her eyes sorrowed once again from the trying,

Knowing now that light lapping on coral

Just sometimes won’t gleam beautiful enough.