Place

The moon dangling from the curtain rod
is the same moon that was shining above the clock tower,
criss-crossed by cable-car wires,
a silent catechism in that coastal city.

Since then I have seen Orion's star feet
skimmed by an airplane's wing.
He stood for a second on the fleeting stage
and passed into the west.

Here the bright bulb is filtered all by falling leaves,
pine needles, storm windows.
It is not the same.
It rolls against the corner of my eye
like a marble on a slanted floor.