The Blue Book

Mars and the Moon

Mars came last night
to watch the moon robe herself
in Earth’s red wake
and you whispered to me
strange stories of old courts
and a poet pale
in the thin atmosphere,
sat on a mosaic meaning more
than can be seen;
watching a dance like
falling petals from a person
moving in obedience
to that first and greatest law;
growing roses in the old tongue
that match this red shade
and the coming of a holy man,
long foretold,
to speak again of vanity,
of the blasphemy of saying
even one of the sacred names,
and the secret delight
of living still.

Mortality a small price to pay
for this:
to feel the stars move
behind your mouth;
all the silent syllables of space
spared forever,
in the mind of a poet
far from home.

Finally at peace.


A Rose for Ecclesiastes