VII

Bastard moon, you are,
the loveless moon, you are the loveless moon.
Your monotone surprises me,
the deep impressions of your face
discover lovelessness in me,
stained in silver petals, and
sallow bulbs glinting off black faces in the tar.
Wherever I am sad, you are, you saddle the French horse
of my loneliness—you possess me: I am reaching.
What is leftover remains in the skin,
the red, heated skin, the eyes of a stone-face,
the eyes of my heart, falling upon sleep!
Because you are the loveless moon, you are.