Wanting to make music
as if each note could be cut into shape;
as if an arm manipulated a shoulder and hand
and objects could come as clean
as ideas.

Wishing beauty were not owned.

Wanting a rose to be
more original.

And the moon not so old that it was
decaying tomato-red, soft mush
when my fingers clean out the vegetable
bin / the moon I put in there
firm, round; not the blood a dreamer kissed from my mouth.