The Moon
So close yet so far he swims ahead naked
& alone. A crayfish propels itself forwards but looks
like it’s retreating. Each propulsion is brave & reptilian.
You wish you’d taken up those lessons:
practiced your form more. Early Italian cards have star-
gazers beholding an eclipse, measuring instruments
in hand.
Other decks show the goddess Diana, hunting
her dark forests.
Heaving through the water he thinks
of Actaeon, splashed from the pool, & torn apart
by his own hounds.
In Budapest, the moon is carried. A figure weighed down,
like a twilit Atlas.
As he swims ahead naked the water gleams
like spilled milk. In this bent light, everything
looks awry. A bush becomes a bear / a house / a boat
the shore comes no closer
he feels immobilised
yet buoyed from below
In this dark night of the soul he sees only doubles //
shadows. Each element reminded of itself He catches
his doppelgänger flail at the moon’s hidden face.
Only in the greatest terror can treasure
be found: you have to risk it all before sunrise
The journey is pure id, a soft shimmer
dark flux
His life has never been less clear as he relinquishes
his breaststroke, feeling the underworld
pull him into dimness
Yes, it is too cliché to write the moon
Yes, we have been here so many times yet
we are all simply wolves baying at its glow