The moon does not

want to be touched.

How do I know?

The goats this morning

bludgeon each other

and then roll in the daisies

singing their childhood songs.

The moon wants

(it has said to me)

only to go swimming,

and here is a lake

like an opal opened

from its cave.

Come closer, moon.

No gods prowl

these shores.

Nothing mudded

or poison-fleshed.

I will teach you

to float, to hold

your celestial

breath and feel

the water close

over you like an eye

closes, and everything

will go on growing

but for a moment

like the top of a breath

will pause and either

go on or perish.

Rachel Abramowitz
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