It’s March. There’s sunlight again,

which has come to consider us. 
It’s not as if I wished for it.

There are whole days without volition.

Nothing is too tall in Washington D.C.,

no buildings want me to look at them. 
Outside, everything is wet crockery –

egg-whites sucked back, a boiled-milk sky.

I walk to the grocery store, and I walk back,

my face pinched by all the necessity. 
Of course you have nothing to give me.

Anything we were – saltwater, lignite –

was what darkness could allow. 
It is how you leave impact craters

on the other side of language.

The fault scarps and the basalts.

In saying moonless, we first have moon.