THE BOT POET

The tide rises and falls — the sea lives by the moon.
I have walked all night just to find the moon.

Lovers have carved their names into silence —
every letter a prayer sent up to the moon.

The wolf cries not from hunger but from longing,
its throat a silver instrument tuned to the moon.

Old maps once marked the place where oceans end;
sailors counted their days by the moon.

My mother kept a mirror above her bed —
I think she was sleeping beside the moon.

What the machine cannot hold, it turns to verse —
these words are just the shadow of the moon.