La Gironde

I'm searching wildly
for a way I can call my own along deadbeat streets,
white into oil-spill into stop-sign into rain,
grey falling over everything like the spots of a trout sinking.
Step to the door
that opens on the hair of the moon,
swing from the rafters humming a bitter tune,
a bitter little tune.
I have nothing to say
when I look into the eyes of the moon
as she watches me hesitate by the cliff edge,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune
she narrows her salty eyes and tuts, I can see it.
She thinks I'm childish
for having a translucent dream
of hidden oceans
it is only in dreams you taste saltwater, kiss the heroine.
The night is wearing its heat tight, close-cropped like topiary
but it is cold across the universe, I feel it.