RISING MOON

I am at once the cup of the white lily
and the brown earth under
Standing against a tree and a black mountain
and the white moon thunder

Listen the end...Listen the end of silence.
"Here" is a word for wait and a gray tether.
If you would come, there would be something broken.
There would be end of gray by a gold feather.

I am the faun, the doe, and the lone hunter,
And the lost bird flying.
You are at once the hurt and the last pleasure
and the long, long crying.