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Timothy BradfordListen



I forgot her face the way men forget the moon.
So many veils, even the sky forgets the moon.

On my desk, a strand of her hair and Rilke’s poetry
illuminated by sunlight. Forget the moon!

She wore a purple cashmere shawl, and when it slipped
down her fine-boned shoulders, all men forgot the moon.

We walked barefoot from Ms. Soni's Guest House
to the mango tree of orange flesh that dared forget the moon.

And her voice sang for two dances in New Delhi—
our last dance, and one alone to forget the moon.

I remember little—the way her mouth fit mine,
the strength of artists' hands, how to forget the moon.

Timotheos, what is the source of your sorrow?
Did you kiss the hollow night but forget the moon?



As for servals, jackals, monkeys,
tigers, lions and baboons,
female chimps in heat
with genitals swollen like
pink balloons, elephants content
in their sad bags of skin, rhinos
set for dinner with their horns
and plates and lips, and the fishing cat
with eyes like Chuang Tzu's—
all outdone! We humans,
caging our nakedness
in clothes, swearing our long fangs
left under some tree on the savanna, buried
in some closet at home, we—
most unbelievable
spectacle of all.


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