Seeing Is Seen
Night is a grandfather
terribly old in its happening.
One must always have this
to grow on each other we did like moss over log
then older. Lawns seem wider now
with no one else standing there.
This is old, this wind gust nostalgic
and pulled from a book’s wrinkled pages.
One day we’ll be wrinkled and I’ll hate to touch you.
Remember how fat the moon hung,
a head with no body afloat stars lit dim.
It all depends on this despair wild and barefoot
in the grass, childlike, walks over stone to turn
us rocky, keeps us locked beneath its paw.
Sometimes we must think of something else.
Keep in mind the empty bottles, food scraps,
old letters heaped in the trash bin. See how we live
just like humans. We’re no different than the man
at the law firm. We’re no different than children.
Soon the child will let up crying, let up rain
does eventually. Let up your lonely. One must be drunk
awhile to do this. Find company in the quiet drive
home calm as an ocean’s faint voice.
Night will always have a tale of us sneaking around,
when all the backs of the world are turned,
we’ll face each other again. Seeing is seen
like water sees us looking down.