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Eclipse of the Moon

the country they came from,
how it all would have turned out
if they had never left home.
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Moving
In love, and leaving;
I read the signs on all faces.
Moving on, moving
heart and furniture, stripped, bare,
save what memento of old places
serves to set up house somewhere.
My roots are buried.
Dig deep. All you will find
is a continent of hair roots that the mind
calls disarray, passages hurried
in transportation from wide earth to plant,
windowed hallways tipped to the sun's slant.
Moving on, memories in the roots.
What will become of the past's tunnels
spaded out by those now leaving?
Will the earth fill in and get new shoots
rocked by a mole-like heaving?
My scattered life drives down as through a funnel.
What is love in this dim underground
where root and upheaval
testify to the earth that my heart has found
fecundity beyond the blight or weevil's
cerebral killing? Where is love
when deep in earth blind to what blooms above?
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The heights of the yellow hills are straight
low in deep shade is the tree,
here the hour comes and stands
waiting beside eternity
seeing out to fields of plenty
looking off to the grey sea.
the apartment is falling to ruin
sandpaper, linseed oil, ammonia
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