It is late afternoon.
I have put Beethoven on.
It is foolish to impute pain
to the intense sky
but that is what I have done.
And I will impute loneliness
to the appearing moon.

It is early night.
Down in the lighted city
the tedious hunts begin.
I have been assured
there is no cause for shame.
I am not ashamed.
I turn the music louder.

There's the moon
in my room's window.
I balance it on my thumb
and try to flip it over.
It does not turn,
but still, my thumb
is not broken.
I open the window.
I make the music softer.
I walk on Murray Hill.
The moon needs no legend.
It proclaims its interest
in time, in the immediate night.
I decide to leave it alone.
In my room
the music is turning
because I expect a friend.