there is no moon out
and I am thinking of tides, of receiving and releasing, how we grip and strip
to the bones all that’s good in this life, how we turn and twist ourselves
into knots of longing, how we hold on.
we hold on.
oh, but loving is letting go. loving is agony
washed with tenderness. you can never hold on to anyone.
you have to leave them where they are: a field apart from yours.
and the long grasses wave in the wind
between you, and you can see them there, and their arms are waving too,
calling you. I am here, they seem to say. come and find me.
and you walk, you try to meet them, but they will always be
apart from you, somehow, no matter how close—how close—how close you get.
we drift like planets,
each one alone.
but I take comfort in this:
we can sing to one another
in the dark.