qarrtsiluni

Moon with its most voice, size,
has called again water off the near shore,
and sea grass, all combed, points to its exit.
Gulf and green oceans beckon the blood.
And the same cool friendless planet, lonely
for fluids, calls larger on the sea masses,
after which even cupfulls incline to it, glasses
tip their meniscuses and tank cars list
slightly on their tracks.
Even the ospreys about to dive
must respond in a small way, and everything liquid,
we in our blood baths, faintly lean
to the place where water uncovers
the wishful moon, the purpose of its gravity:
a few treasures, hermits, the closest stars.

by Allan Peterson

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