EAST 12TH

Sometimes the moon
Thinks she's a ship.
She throws a heavy rope
Towards a pier
Decommissioned
Since 1943. Sailors
(Why does the moon
Have sailors?) swarm down
To spend their leave
In the arms and the beds
Of transparent girls
With rust-colored eyes.

EMBRACING THE MOON

Li Po died, they say,
Trying to embrace a moon
He saw in the water.
Nonsense!
He never
Merely tried.
Moons always
Welcomed his embrace.

TALKING TO STATUES

Those days I was much troubled by the Moon
So midnight often sent me down the midway
Of a fair closed before I was born.
On my way to Masaryk's statue I'd pass
The tower room from which you might be looking.
I would express regret to the statue that its subject
Had been thrown from a window in Prague.
Some nights he’d answer "Long ago it was,"

"Long ago and quickly over."

ANOTHER OF AESRED'S

The Chinese poet Li Po often wandered

Into my father’s stories. He’d enter juggling

Three oranges, a rooster and the moon

Or telling about a night spent failing

To outdrink his shadow.

DURING THE RETREAT

Beside the road the moon lay
Almost dead. Sim wanted to leave it
Saying we'd troubles enough already
But Marley shook his head. The corporal
Took the moon's feet and I took a grip
On the shoulders. We put it near the fire,
Gave it some of our terrible soup
Made from weeds and nameless animals.
It woke up addled, with no recall
Of anything before us. It spoke slowly
And expressed doubt that it was the moon.
It was able to speak good Latin,
Or recite pi to several dozen places.
It could also read palms and tell true fortunes
But it held a spoon by the wrong end
And would not lace the boots we gave it.
After a few weeks, just when we’d got used to it,
It climbed a tree one night then kept on climbing.
When we could barely see it, a pair of boots
Fell from the sky, missing Sim by inches.

CALLING THE MOON

"I remember," the old muse said,
"The first time the moon was called
As witness to a poet's love;
The excitement! The daring!
Others had picked leaves
Or thrown stones (What says passion
Better than a well-aimed rock?)
But to insolently summon the moon--
I half thought the poet would die
Right then. She thought so too
And braced herself against a tree.

But the moon was pleased
And raised her voice when the sea
Was minded to drown you all."

A LEMBERGOISE

My grandmother Esther was from Lemberg
Also called Lvov, Lwow, Lviv and Leopolis.
When there was a kingdom called Ruthenia,
Its king lived there. Karaites drifted in

From Byzantium. It had  -- still has -- broad streets
Leading to an opera house, so my grandmother
When she was a teenager making cigarettes
With other factory girls may have gone
To see Carmen, which is also about a girl
Who makes cigarettes. Due to Lvov's shortage
Of Escamillos, or even Don Joses, she married Max,
A very nice man. Over time, mild affection for him

Blossomed into serene and settled dislike.
Had they stayed they likely would have died
Along with almost all the other of the towns’Jews.
She deemed New York no substitute for Lemberg.
The moon over the Hudson River was never

A match for the one whose white double

Swam through Poltowa’s broken willows.

LOST BIRD

As birds will, this one

Had flown into the wrong poem
Where it fluttered about

Disturbing the grammar.

The Duke of Wellington,

Asked about the pigeons

Nesting  in St. Paul’s rafters

And twittering at vespers,

Suggested bringing in hawks

But my muse dislikes blood.

Brushing me aside,

She whistled and the bird

Came to her hand and sat

Seeming content to wait

For me to hire some trees,

Breed up a few birds

And rent a moon

Just two days past full.

THIS. THEN THAT. THEN THIS ONCE MORE BUT WITH A LITTLE MUSTACHE AND A DIS-SATISFIED EXPRESSION

Whenever I begin to write, the moon grows vexed, knowing I’ll demand she make an appearance. The ghosts which wander the halls, though, are always glad to hear my pen, expecting work. (Time hangs so heavy on spectral, death-forgotten hands). Stones put on dignity, yet somehow think of dancing. The mountains are unmoved; I rarely write of them. Death sends the shadow of his shadow; I’ve used its services so often it has thought of taking a room nearby.

I met Murder on the way

An old man, with a bad toupee,

And not, as I’d expected, grim

St. Michael cracked a joke with him

Each walked and jested with the other

As one would with a long-lost brother.

I stood there goggling at those two

St. Michael said: “Do I know you?”

And put his hand upon his sword

Till Murder stopped him with a word

“Stay, good Michael! Cease! Forfend!

I’m loath to lose so old a friend

Who’s never let his common sense

Hold him back from my defense.

He always speaks so well of me;

My work in foreign policy

He praises highly, and my plan

To arm each woman, child and man

He deems a very just solution

(Well-rooted in the Constitution)

To pressing problems of the time,

Crowded streets and petty crime.

Come, friend, come and break some bread

We’ll talk about the recent dead

And cities burnt, and battles waged.”

But I was otherwise engaged.