Everything That Acts is Natural

From the tawny light

from the rainy nights

from the imagination finding

itself and more than itself

alone and more than alone

at the bottom of the well where the moon lives,

can you pull me

into December? a lowland

of space, perception of space

towering of shadows of clouds blown upon

clouds over

			new ground, new made

under heavy December footsteps? the only

way to live?

The flawed moon

acts on the truth, and makes

an autumn of tentative

silences.

You lived, but somewhere else,

your presence touched others, ring upon ring,

and changed. Did you think

I would not change?

					The black moon

turns away, its work done. A tenderness,

unspoken autumn.

We are faithful

only to the imagination. What the

imagination

			seizes

as beauty must be truth. What holds you

to what you see of me is

that grasp alone.