by Anne Stevenson
There may be a moon.
Look at the masklike complexion of the roof,
recognisable but relieved of familiarity.
The street, too. How weakened, unstable.
Shadows have more substance than the walls
they lean from. Thick phosphorescence
gathers in the spaces between window
and black window. Something subtle, like a moon,
has been creeping under surfaces,
giving them queer powers of illumination.
In this centreless light
my life might really have happened.
It rises, showing its wounds, longing for
abrasive penances. It touches me with a mania for
stealing moonlight and transforming it into my own pain.
I can feel myself closing like an eye.
I’m unable to look at the moon
or at anything pitted and white that is up there
painted on the sky.
From:
Collected Poems 1955-2005
Copyright ©:
2005, Bloodaxe Books
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