Take that hand away, the hand
washing like small warm stones along my neck

There’s a donkey standing in the doorway,
capable of commentary but silent from droopy-eyed folly.
She’s the one who scales the cliff, 300 feet up, calling
Help me, help me

“The clouds have all crashed on the moon”
Yes, and that which has broken, the stronger for it

The fishing boats wear fedoras, the vicuna wear fedoras,
tilting the whirl of shadow and ridiculous aching light
away from eyes crowded by mottling blues and greens,
defeated by these maddest things