The moon was a house in which no architect invested.
It tottered on the garden gate at five a.m. among
The strings of colored lights, then seemed to fall
When the small-town garbage truck rumbled up.
The clouds got in the way again. Another minor mercy,
Being awake in the house to see the houses of the night
Tumble and glow like little bank accounts, like faeries
On the shadow lawns of local, brief arrangements,
The planets, the planes, the winking stars, the moon,
The gates, the eaves, the decorated tents of trees.
When all are accidents, temporary, retrograde, unbalanced,
Then there are no mistakes, after all. I wobbled
Out of bed, barely capable biped, but I pounced.
And there I was, smiling again in the dim, behind
My cloudy veil, behind my thoughts, the sense
Of being something, glowing and implausible again.
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