First published as The Cotton Sonnet, then posthumously
as The Mineral Thief, the book of moonlight
never did appear in paperback. But it was bound
in an open air bindery, just before
the collected sidewalk, just after the selected
raccoon. In one monograph, the moon actually
dances off from its own dinner party, the dishes
not done and the guests still talking, the streetlights
huddled outside, tall tradesmen gossiping
cautiously about the constellations, how great
the space between them, how strange their crooked
carpentry. Of course, that’s just one version.
Others contend it just sinks back to the suburbs,
the dewy shingles above the two-car garage where
the moon now lives, and where it drifts off,
if I remember correctly, in the night’s quiet library.
The wind stopping by to thumb through it,
then putting it back when it’s done.
See also the moon, sitting on a shelf, just
out of reach. It’s call number the square root of one.
