August Moon

Golden like a half slice of orange
Fished from a stiff old fashion, the moon
Lolls on the sky that goes deeper blue
By the tick of the watch or
Like a brass button half buttoned
On the blue flannel sleeve
Of the blue seagoing blazer

While slowly stars gain definition
In a gradual eczema of glory

What kind of world is this we play in?

It makes no sense except
The inner and soundless chug-chug of its
Own old business
Your father’s cancer, or
Mother’s stroke, or
The cat’s fifth pregnancy

Anyway, while night
Hardens into its infinite being
We go walking down the wood lane
Dreaming

There’s an inward means of
Communication with
That world whose darkling susurration
Might – if we were only lucky – be
Deciphered

Children do not count years
Except at birthday parties
We count them unexpectedly
At random, like
A half-wit pulling both triggers
Of a 10-gauge with no target, then

Wondering what made the noise
Or what hit the shoulder with the flat
Butt of an axe head

But this is off the point, which is
The counting of the years – and who
Wants to live anyway

Except to be of use to
Somebody? At least,
That’s the way they always say it

Do you hear the great owl in the distance?
A hand on your head

The moon is lost in tree-darkness
Stars show now only
In the sky-pale path between treetops
The tracks of pale gravel leads foot forward
In darkness

I advise you to hold hands as we walk,
And be sure to speak not a word

-Robert Penn Warren-