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The moon wades in my window, implacable, indifferent to itself, following its own path in dark deepening from ankles to thighs -- it crosses the foot of my bed -- ignorant of sirens, traffic-lights, cross-streets, all the usual sounds and obstructions of human traffic, striding like Neptune up the shingle of beach created by tide and battering of waves, knowing no interference, no barrier, nothing -- darling -- of our tiny questions and answers, our frets and perplexities, our uneasy submission to what we find so mysterious and hard we invent suggestive names for it we don’t even understand. Its feet have met mine. It creeps so softly, with such |