Hugged gravity of the gibbous moon,
this perfect circle, a chipped white plate

its center, a pale reach the compass leg
enscribing silvery thought, red to violet,

surrounding bow. How is the world,
broken, turning in stillness. not moon?

Rising

So large! The tide roiling, the sea-wound
and broil like a dream afraid, the moon

so near. A pale basket being hauled
into the sky, beginning a separation,

the amazed heart swelling; a redness
failing in the west; our breath caught up.

Full

What I carry with me from the North
fallen into a glittering field

of sea, the water’s many small deaths
the timid openings of memory.

Whatever I was, whoever you
are, dolor of ghostly origins