Smudged moon, bleared moon, moon of indistinct sorrows –
How after all this time to put you in a poem & let you remain
So much has been annexed from the realm of poetry
& now if we write of beauty, if we sit in awe –
Shame we are not deconstructing or even, being blind.
Still I long for you, moon over the holy coldness of the ocean during
Spawning season where beneath your bone-light
Hundreds of salmon spines lie, their frail lace cleaned out by gulls
& left to the night, moored boats that have done what they came to do.