I do not understand the moon all at once,
astronomic and abstract,
heatless and bright in equal parts —
but every now and every then, lies
a curious face at the window:
my soul in a mirror, an eye.
Reflection of all parts misunderstood,
and the naked eye, and the hungry sigh.
I do not understand its sorcery;
sun-like but not like the sun,
all mystery, and cool reflecting energy
giving off nothing but guesses
and wishes, and cruising its sky:
my soul in a mirror, an eye.