Powder and scent and silence. The young dwarf <br />Shoulders his lute. The moon is Levantine. <br />It settles its pearl in every glass of wine. <br />Harlequin is already at the wharf. <br /> <br /> <br />The gallant is masked. A pressure of his thumb <br />Communicates cutaneous interest. <br />On the smooth upward swelling of a breast <br />A small black heart is fixed with spirit gum. <br /> <br /> <br />The thieving moment is now. Deftly, Pierrot <br />Exits, bearing a tray of fruits and coins. <br />A monkey, chained by his tiny loins, <br />Is taken aboard. They let their moorings go. <br /> <br /> <br />Silence. Even the god shall soon be gone. <br />Shadows, in their cool, tidal enterprise, <br />Have eaten away his muscular stone thighs. <br />Moonlight edges across the empty lawn. <br /> <br /> <br />Taffeta whispers. Someone is staring through <br />The white ribs of the pergola. She stares <br />At a small garnet pulse that disappears <br />Steadily seaward. Ah, my dear, it is you. <br /> <br /> <br />But you are not alone. A gardener goes <br />Through the bone light about the dark estate. <br />He bows, and, cheerfully inebriate, <br />Admires the lunar ashes of a rose, <br /> <br /> <br />And sings to his imaginary loves. <br />Wait. You can hear him. The familiar notes <br />Drift toward the old moss-bottomed fishing boats: <br />“Happy the heart that thinks of no removes.” <br /> <br /> <br />This is your nightmare. Those cold hands are yours. <br />The pain in the drunken singing is your pain. <br />Morning will taste of bitterness again. <br />The heart turns to a stone, but it endures.<br /><br />Anthony Evan Hecht<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/clair-de-lune-3/
