I came to bed thinking of a girl
with hair of September wheatgrass.
The moon watched me there, diaphanous,
concave. I poked it with my finger
and popped it in my right eye
so I could see the plain truth,
the shapes of things from all their sides.
I saw right through the world
and the moonlight bounced back to me
on a river that smelled sweet and rank
that was the girl, reflexion of my bright desire.