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Poem at Night // George Moore

This is the poem at night:

through a window perhaps
or through the mind’s square eye

possibly the darkness before the dawn
the cosmos before particles formed

the poem released from its cell
or does that come after?

This is the poem at dawn:

with its one good eye just open
and its heart in its mouth

before light rays have actually found it
asleep in the box

light that would transform it
into the crucible of the day

This is the poem after battle:

with the brain and with love
and with others who would name it

when it has been cut up
by the sword of the tongue

and these little snakes of letters and lines
that force it to submit

This is the poem of becoming:

a nipple on the thermos of the world
waiting for the right eye

to save it from the darkness of self
to drink it deep into the non verbal

to let it go in its half moon hope
toward some new impossible shape