Before the Moon

How this ache stops me, old teacher

that it is. Often on the way home

when the wiper won’t clear it away.

Or after a call with a friend who longs

for something he can’t quite name.

After utter companionship, not knowing

what to say, when everyone has gone to bed,

and the moon has stopped being shy, I put

my tongue on the table like a paper weight

and walk wordless through the night.

The place where beauty meets pain

is where we bend, not break.