The pure note
of the triangle
is weightless
yet hangs
on bent steel,
while the moon,
with no light
of her own,
bends light
to illuminate
a world.

Like flint on rock
love mirrors
and multiplies,
transforming
inert matter
into fire.

And like the moon
and her reflection
or bent arm of steel
and sonorous wave—
whether with you
or without you—I’m never
entirely yours, even
in your arms,
nor can I be
entirely my own
when we are apart.