Tonight the moon is out
on parole—no room, no light
of her own, although in the right mood
she can drag her black dress across
a continent or simply
disappear. Sometimes by the sea
I’ve seen her spend the night
looking at her face in the mirror.
Just try asking her to turn
the other cheek. But me and the moon,
we’re like this: she says you can do
anything that you want to do, but stay off
of my blue suede shoes. On the bonheur
du jour of Marie Antoinette—with its amourettes,
petite sets of drawers above
the writing surface, and its secret
compartment—now in the boudoir
of Béatrice Ephrussi de Rothschild, overlooking
the bay from Cap Ferrat, sits Béatrice’s
telephone. Her number is 166. If I had
ten bags of language, I would travel
to the four months of June and give Béatrice
a call. Astrologers say, “an eclipse may
bring news suddenly, but it takes weeks
to understand its real meaning.”
Just call up the moon, ask
what she’s doing tonight.