Now in violet the big round moon,
While soup is heated on the track
And blackberries
Fall into our hands:
Sunset-shining
Were the first we picked, the moon
An intimation only in the haze.
Now, in violet this big moon;
Now, stubble glinting; westward, Mars;
Now metal of our picnic table, not
This night air, cold.
They say,
They say, It is serene. But I am not a
Brother of Basho. Senriu, not
Haiku, is my kind. I’m
Failed by the abstruse. I say,
It is a full moon rising
In a matt of violet only.
It is stubble only
Because of moonlight glinting, and only
Mars between
The sunset and the risen moon.
And under, somewhere, this great
Space wild cars klaxon
For the wed; and with a trail
A high plane
Underwrites the moon.
And I decay, and my illusions
Go. Grace, which is
Best, is not substantial,
Does not go on, is, against the cruel,
Not strong, recoils
From suffering.
Killing abhorred, the Panchen Lama
Hired Dark and Years to kill
At last the man, in a wet
Dungeon, whom
He could not kill.
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