by Melanie Carter

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.