The moon’s been pierced,
and who’s peering in?...
My den crouches low below,
ensconced in leafs,
I climb a reed to its top
to see.
Whiter breath up here; so
strike the knuckles upon
the chin’s stubble to warm them.
...I’ve been registered, I’ve been seen,
by who, behind the moon,
who looks and won’t stop—
-2002
