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.