I know you won’t. Not here. Not this time. Not
in this house. Not even back in the back
room, unbuttoning the lights. Not for all the flocks
of dark birds in winter. So don’t ask

me about the moon. There’s no bright thigh
spread there, no animal sticking his snout
in the gauze. Night tips over into night.
I’m stiff with it. And what was thrown out

is thrown back like ice. There’s no room
behind this room, no walls, no sheets of glass
to bear down on. No mouthings of soon, soon,
nor any reason to push my hands past

this picture, to stop it. So please don’t.
What didn’t happen happened after what won’t.