The moon became a motion I'd once forgot, A blur in a cheap reflection of a stranger's face, Potentially important, no more than that, A place I'd visited, once, in a dream that seemed No dream, but had lost the ingenious souvenirs That kept imagination avid in the garden, Beneath the qua distractions of the leaves, The solemnities of roses, the junk geraniums, Patching life together from the shards Of whatever fell from whatever was the sun. Hares in clover ignored the birds that were Zen angels of their shared paradise Above the dirty water smoky in its dish; So, too, I had ignored--something, something Important but indistinct, a vital cog in what Goes whirling round--no, that's not it, not quite. I felt there was an awful suavity to things, A hidden grace to every flagrant gaffe, A swoon in the hips of each marching martinet, A subtle doubleness to every dromedary. My only clue was something I'd forgot to do, An inference of fantastic in the backyard's bland, A something more than the shrubbery at hand, The dirty water, the hares and reiterative birds. Something, something.... And it was evening; Everything of daylight had receded in a wave Of going hot, or coolness coming on--each piece Became unpuzzled, a part of evening's grey In a velour of shadows my imagination maimed. And then there was the omnipresence of the moon.