My collection of light darkens in my hands.
The idea trying to be something else
is what wisdom, in secret, finally understands.
The poem’s words were changed
and it didn’t make any difference.
Inspiration wept, then, and was on the verge
of giving up poetry altogether.
How does life do it? Make the random and the many matter?
O bright moon! Night’s bride.
Next month we will marry—
too nervous to ever decide.