The Study

11 Moon behind treeMoon,

    what do you mean,
entering my study
like a curiosity shop,
stroking in mild concern

the telescope mounted
on its tripod, the books,
the attic stair? You
who rise by night, who draw

the inescapable world
closer, a touch,
to your gaze –why
query me? What’s mine

is yours; but you’ve no more
need of those implements
than a deer has,
browsing in a glade.

Moon, your work-
worn face bright
outside unnerves me.
Please, be on your way.