The moon looks in at the window,
staring, and I stare back.
The moon lights up my body
while the room stays inky black.
The moon comes in at the window,
presses its face to mine.
‘Look,’ it breathes, ‘at the things you’ve lost.’
But my dazzled eyes are blind.
My rapture comes from forgotten smiles
on dead faces long ago.
My rapture wakes on frost-cold nights
when the moon shines on the snow.
At dusk I open the window
and ask the moon to come.
‘Remember,’ it says, ‘on nights like these.’
But memory is numb.
I tiptoe across the ice-sharp path
the moon makes on the mat.
‘Remember,’ it says, ‘remember these things.’
But it’s much too late for that.
