lodestone

moon,

someone else far off

is looking for you.

maybe it does not rain there.

maybe their night

is unblighted, unstrewn.

maybe it glitters when they breathe

you and, when they grace

the face of another, exhale you

the other glows with you.

maybe

other someones throw wide

their tiny plots

of ground and invite you

in—and with their scattered

seed cover you up

and wait out the dark,

wait it out,

their faces turned toward day,

until a slight split,

a fissure only the keen see

pushes up

from beneath

and you are at last full

upon them

I hesitate to breathe

or plant what piece of  you

I know.  I am too often absent

minded.  I’d forget

where you’d gone,

where you rested.  I’d forget

to mark your place.

and if I did not forget, it would be

too much a headstone.  and moons like you

should not die. 

best maybe I’ll ask

if I could pour some light

of you and cask your mead inside

 of me and I’d hold you,

 I’d be

a bony oak, 

to age you

long, long.

and in steins of diamond

I’d pour you out,

foam and all,

and the bees

would be the first

to know your

breeze.  they first.  alone.

And then next:

the one who,

far off,

unblights, ig-

‘nights everyone with silent

Pentecost, dust blaze

a tango on my skin,

settling cool, unburning

a true first uncasking,

finally home  in my

  lodestone

of bone