the moon at the mountaintop,

as if about to bolt and drop

slow, like the first troop

that appears before the gates,

so do all elegies

that come singing

before their saints

Soul, it’s the sleep

of a spanish broom,

and the moon

at the mountaintop,

so I forgot

my beating

heart

I,

the old Proteus,

and you,

the Isle of Pharos,

I have known

all the pretty eyed dolphins,

and the gloom

underneath the reek

of all skins

the moon at the mountain top,

as if about to bolt and drop

I could never tell apart,

the morning fog from the forenoon light,

silver from the smoky gray,

and copper from the flushing gold,

from the waters of cay

I heard a bird

that awakened and called:

“the moon at the mountaintop!”

and I forgot my beating heart