Under a cold moon what I write, I write simply. Words are cracks That winter etched on my skin.

At a night hour when I write, I write simply. Words are footfalls of panthers pacing my bones.

Lying in bed where I write, I write simply. Words are the insomnia, the bed and the blanket.

Thinking of you, you for whom I write, I write simply. Words are cubits of breaths between us, and don’t require thanks!

Cups, mouths filling and emptying Talk. Hands waving the slight ribbon Of winter cold.

Books, sonars Of a searching soul, weaving an incidental Tapestry of two signals.

First, silken, hushed with rain, yours. Second, coarse, maniacal, hurled Over an asylum wall, mine.

Other truths? They were revealed By simply watching how your Body moved.

Another evening has passed, apparently. The only sign it has left is this dismembered Time, wrapped around my wrist, Which I now look at disbelievingly.

2004:01:03 21:15 Atlanta

If you go out into the cold now And after getting under a filigree of basalt branches, Look up,

You will see me there With my silken nets, hauling in A piece of the moon.