as the howling poets gather on the mount,
to court the darkness,
in the company of the moon




I press my cheek to yours
                                              to forget what is distant,
                                                        ­                                  to show me what is real



                 which is only the night,
and possibly the stars





but in a patch of silence,
      the whisper of a tree
           escapes its seedling shell
                   and rises with the sun