Forget the universe. The moon is fine
at that dull distance. It keeps
its old man rising and falling and held
aloft. Instead, say oak. Mean darkness
waiting in a green field. Or pendulum,
for an instant, turning on itself. I say
strength, and think the gilt edge of a mirror
or small fish rippling a clear pond.
I say water, too, and mean not death,
but refuge. A place where going into
can later be came back from. A tangible blue.
