Moonrise

I woke in the midsummer not-to-call night

in the white and the walk of the morning:

The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe

of a fingernail held to the candle,

Or paring of paradisaical fruit,

lovely in waning but lustreless

Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow

of dark Maenefa the mountain;

A cusp yet clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him

entangled him, not quite utterly.

This was the prized, the desirable sight,

unsought, presented so easily,

Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me

eyelid and eyelid of slumber.