On submitting a book
There’s an empty black square
where the moon should be, and it’s aching.
I would fill it, if I could, with something other
than reflections of lamps and books.
Completion shouldn’t be like this.
There should be a night sky so clear
no star would be invisible.
The moon should be harvest-full, blood-red.
There should be music, and bodies swaying.
Men and women should be reaping.
There should be heat, and flagons of wine,
and children running to the stream with bare feet.
Where is the stream, where is the full moon,
where have the children gone, where is the laughter?
The black window-square is empty;
only the book-shelves are replete.