July 2001
Appears to be hanging in the dim
By the particular weakness
Of a chord extended from heaven,
Erected gently and carefully feeble;
And under such light,
A calculated wind ascends
Just faint enough to strike it,
Is not the precision of the blow,
The singularity, the exactness,
A justification?
And if not,
Would the validation lie
In the requiem the breeze creates
By its measured journey
To detach the dangling moon from its bed?
And if not,
If the moon's own grace in extinction,
The deliberate perfection of the night,
The waiting cushion of death
Do not align action and reason,
Then we can extract the grief from the ignorance
And cast it into the rectifying furnace of God.
For if the precision appears cold
And the wind less melodic than fierce,
Then the product of our own pain,
The sympathetic love song of our tears,
The security of the flame they create,
Should warm our senses enough
To notice the beauty
Of the moon's collapse.
