I told my God, the moon,
At 6:42 this morning
That I fret until mad because of love.
I waited seven God-damned days for her,
And when I could sense her breath,
When I could lift the tips
Of the fingers of my right hand
And place them to her lips,
I froze like a lollipop.
Love is nothing like the air, said the moon.
Miss Julie told me of her job
Which, too, is rendering her mad,
Like a patient unmedicated in St. Elizabeth’s Hospital,
And Miss Julie told me of her daughter.
I held in my pocket “Miller’s Crossing,”
The CD which I had bought for her, and thought:
“I should lift it from my brown pocket
And tell her I have a gift.”
Instead, as if in Dublin,
Miss Julie turned toward the coffee pot,
And so infinity was gone.
I understood breathless:
Another insidious week must pass,
And now the moon cries like a poet,
While I wonder about the clouds this morning
Which dissipate toward the south and east.