What are you, bloated white face louring
one eye dragging, black mascara running
mouth down-turned—poor clown—can I help it
if your nerves are shot to pieces can I stop
your face from dripping on the floor or folding
behind black clouds can I stop your demented trooping
your circling of the globe, looking, looking
your eternal waxing and waning, pushing and dragging
the weight of the world’s waters in your veins?
I used to know your every phase
could chart your flitting through the houses of the sun
but now your full-blown face catches me unawares
takes my breath away each time with its pouncing
as if from some childish hiding-place or hollow.
You are older than Mount Olympus, why come here
pressing your face against my window? You can still
haul me in, make me shiver at your icy radiance
the silvery shoals moving across your skin
but soon your snowy face, blasted and pining
for Heaven knows what, will let fall its frozen tears
on someone other than me.