Saturday, December 19, 2020

Nothing by Randall Mann


My mother is scared of the world.
She left my father after forty years.
She was like, Happy anniversary, goodbye;
I respect that.
The moon tonight is dazzling, is full
of   itself  but not quite full.
A man should not love the moon, said Milosz.
Not exactly. He translated himself
into saying it. A man should not love translation;
there’s so much I can’t know. An hour ago,
marking time with someone I would like to like,
we passed some trees and there were crickets
(crickets!) chirping right off  Divisadero.
I touched his hand, and for a cold moment
I was like a child again,
nothing more, nothing less.

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