The Count

I said moon but I didn’t 

mean any only the meaning

moons are, handy arbiters

of the count, the seed

Goethe says is just

another leaf of the plant

that is leaf all the way

through. Moon that is all

moons, then one I follow

like anyone else to where

they adore the knot

adorn some part of the sequence

of shapes they dream to make.

The moon is a word with

leaves curled in to fruit

ribs pushed out of buds

intentions of its own which are

the character of one’s time.

Love is a handful of birds

who fly in the shape of a bird

the words all claim they’ve found.