Faces move away in a boat made of paper
inside the beautiful curves of the storm
and then there's a moon in a luminous mood
in a black place, a moon for workers and
travelers, a remedy for grief. There the weeds
grow old and crack, they let the secret
of their stubbornness come out invisibly,
to crows and a secret moon that hides
in the curve of the song and in the man
in the road with his poor torn hand
held up to show. Behind him his house made
of cedar, the one the sun had dried and
grayed, traditions of dryness and transparency
here, handmade walls that move a little out of true
gently and slowly and tunes that wander
like a big-eyed staggering child. The one
he likes the best is called "the moon is a poor
kind of wife, dog lettuce and pinhead grass
at the edge of her music, cool sound of the
ringing phone in an empty house, a silky
thought goes walking on between bare trees and sky."