Moon

If this were a poem
you would climb
the long attic steps up to
the bed alone. You

would be stopped on the
last step where
you would see through the
high window the white

white moon absolutely still
in a swath of blue clouds,
the dark wide craters you
could step down into, I

would show you the place
inside, seventy thousand
years ago, when you looked at
it in the europe, eight

hundred and twenty thousand
years ago in asia, three
and one half million years ago
in africa. If this were

a poem, you would know why
the sad man in the mall
shot twenty three smiles dead.

Stones grow. The heart and
mind can sink together, at
once, under the weight of

them in your pockets. You’ve
carried them there since
the beginning.