Lying in wait, the undersoul,
when something hurts, you
can't heal it with descriptive passages
or wise guy quips,
or human sacrifice. Like the satellite true
feature story on Rio de Janeiro and
the massacre of homeless children,
no double talk.
Holding back the mismatch, misunderstanding
is the lonliest paradox, far seeing
with only faith to build on-- life's belittling
pathos, digging out.
When this lunar thing, notoriously
expired, in the swamp ditch of
the night, a moon of transfigured light
goes up, that would be dark
too, except filling the whole meadow,
so radiant, you could read
a newspaper by.
From *Sleeping Late on Judgment Day*