When I get
up at five and see the moon
clutched firmly in the branches of a tree,
I wonder why men go to war, and gods
and folly were invented for that time.
here, the great long sea
stretches and chases this bright lamp
that hangs still as silent gods and foolish men
cry beneath a sun that burns that distant land.
supple sea cannot reach this black
tree that cradles the moon, the men and me
with our foolish gods who, with hidden thread,
bind this morning scene like some whole cloth.
chirp and chatter at each other,
the leafless tree releases the slow moon
and the sharp sun cracks the black horizon
before I can unwrap the cloth or hear
the gods speak about why men go to war.