THE FULL MOON
When I hang a picture on the wall and the voice
behind me says a shade to the left, a bit up
with the right corner and watch the lower edge, it is not
the motif that is being placed in the desired position.
The sudden sunlight in January that fills
a city street with diagonal shadows, the stream
that trickles under the ice, the smell of ammonia
in a newly washed kitchen are sensed independently of me
before thought has mobilised the correct angles.
The senses dance, the dogmas are threaded on a string,
preferably well above the sewer in the back yard.
What the eyes discover and a kiss leads up to
give me insight into the dark enigmas without answer
when the moon hangs up the earth in its path
in front of the sun and lets its image be taken full-size
at precisely midnight, and always to the south.
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