I too must be happy with all around me.
–Li Po

It rises
a white bloodless eye,
egg cupped
in the womb of night.
Mover of moods and tides,
fraternal twin of the cold
unheeding earth.

What loneliness
presses the moon onward
faithful each night
as a monk
at his Compline office?

Or is it the hard determination
of one who’s lived too long
without sound, without footstep,
yearning for touch:
one more small step,
one more shadow dance
upon the chest.

Lone cloud, an exhaled breath,
passes before its open wolf mouth.

Think of poor Li Po
seeing the moon’s
reflected face in his wine cup,
mistaking the moon
for his drinking companion.

Still he sings
alone, in the silence.
Dances with his own silhouette,
a friend of moon and shadow
in the time of happiness.