Rising

The moon’s not looking
out a window in

the house next door
to the west of bed.

Rising I talk the evening
down from its sorrows:

What begins as one thing
passes into another, I say,

sundown to dusk to night
for instance, night to

faintest light to dawn
to day. Then night says

in a voice so dark I can
not read its words

What begins as love
passes into love

and from the house next door
to the east of my steps

the moon rises
as from its black chimney