A Journey Through The Moonlight

 In sleep when an old man's body is no longer 
aware of his boundaries, and lies flattened by 
gravity like a mere of wax in its bed .
 .
 .
 It drips 
down to the floor and moves there like a tear down a 
cheek .
 .
 .
 Under the back door into the silver meadow, 
like a pool of sperm, frosty under the moon, as if in 
his first nature, boneless and absurd.


 The moon lifts him up into its white field, a cloud 
shaped like an old man, porous with stars.


 He floats through high dark branches, a corpse tangled 
in a tree on a river.

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