And after dusk, and in the deserted library
The night is a small black book
Through which no one ever looks
I pocket it, leave as quickly and quietly as I came
The pages are cold and silent against my hip
But the stars are metallic and pass for coinage
They pay for my bus ticket
I sit upstairs, let slip an accidental handful of owls
These settle on the seat-backs and stare me out
Eyes huge with accusations
And on the walk home, and then in my dreams
And out across the surface of my wakening
And even in the daylight: moths
They follow me everywhere, because my clothes
Because my body, because my thinking
Because all of these and everything I touch
And everywhere I go adopt the odour of moonlight
This they follow because they are moths
And because the moon has never been so close
And all my clothes are black and heavy
And I cannot undress, and I have no pockets
And my hands are full of high cloud
And I cannot touch the book
And my body is thinned by night air
And my head is a void of echoes and distances
And the carpet fills with pins of light
That are cities caught up in a mesh of sleep
All of which pulls away
Beyond the odour of moonlight
Beyond the taste of planets
Beyond the texture of stars
Until everything has been stolen
And the theft is complete