“Truce,” said the wind.
 
“Never!” declared a psychological
Pear,
 
“I am the table and the chair.”
 
But you insist,
 
Do shapes have addresses? 
Can they be reached
By letter?
 
What if there is an emergency
Of lines
 
And geometry is busy
Can’t be reached
By post?
 
What if I am asked by wind
If there is truth in the wind?
 
You say that,
 
The
Wind
Carries a stone fist.
 
And a broken leg
For a tattoo.
 
That darkness has no wires.
No boxes. No caves.
No under the bed.
No above the stars.
It is as shirtless as a penny.
It grows with the grass.
It offers a chance
To look around.
It picks up the rain into the
Ground.
 
But I remember most
 
The seams
Of asteroids
 
In the darkness.

Even worse. I found pieces 
Of the moon under my pillow.
 
In my city you could be arrested
For breaking the moon.
 
There are few of us left.
I draw wings on the old walls.
 
I will never tell them.
I write about pieces of the
 
Moon on paper with lead.
Memorize 864,000. It is
 
The diameter of the sun
In miles. Even worse.
 
The pieces are gone. Rumor
Has it I never found them.
 
That I don’t even know what
Wings are.
 
I’ll never tell them.
 
Silent like a falsetto
In a parking lot of album covers.
 
And if this poem had a sharpie
Spell up the trestles
 
With the forgotten the names of every flower
How they haw and look at the sky
 
And, like me, never tell what they see.