Moonlight spreads

over the stones in your garden,

the knives in your cupboard.

Moonlight pours

into the back of your head.

Wake up it says,

like a wire in your skull,

 

and when I am not there

it tells you of a hotel room,

a bed I am not alone in.

Out your window

the sea and sky

grind against one another

like the haunches

of something much larger.

Out my window

the swallows are falling

from the trees.

Their small intricate bodies

piled on the snow

are a language.

 

You cannot read it.

I can says the moonlight.

But it, like everything else

in this poem,

is not to be trusted.

 

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