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Serious Moonlight
Camille Guthrie

Serious moonlight fell brightly on the mountains tonight

Elegant moonlight fell loudly on the deer asleep in the yard

Broken moonlight fell splendidly on the swing set

Moody moonlight fell hard on the weedy pond

Pretty moonlight fell recklessly on the garden beds

Fierce moonlight fell thoughtfully on the recycling bins

Actual moonlight fell wildly on the coyotes falling on the rabbit

Personal moonlight fell purposely on my desk and books

Ancient moonlight fell perfectly on my bed sheets

Modern moonlight fell roughly scattering my thoughts awfully

Bowie died last night his exquisite alien soul has taken off

You are with another and I’m falling repeatedly

Shattered by this silently falling terrible moonlight

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To My Daughter
Hyam Plutzik, 1911 - 1962

Seventy-seven betrayers will stand by the road,
And those who love you will be few but stronger.

Seventy-seven betrayers, skilful and various,
But do not fear them: they are unimportant.

You must learn soon, soon, that despite Judas
The great betrayals are impersonal

(Though many would be Judas, having the will
And the capacity, but few the courage).

You must learn soon, soon, that even love
Can be no shield against the abstract demons:

Time, cold and fire, and the law of pain,
The law of things falling, and the law of forgetting.

The messengers, of faces and names known
Or of forms familiar, are innocent.

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More Stones
Andrea Cohen

for Philip Levine

Donald Justice has died twice:
once in Miami, in the sun, on a Sunday,
and once in Iowa City, on a Friday
in August, which was not without
its own sunif not bright spot.
The first time he died, he was thinking
of Vallejo, who died in Paris, maybe
on a Thursday, surely in rain.
Vallejo died again in Paris,
in April, of an unknown illness
which may have been malaria,
as fictionalized in Bolaño’s
Monsieur Pain. “There is, brothers,
very much to do,” Vallejo said
between his deaths, and Phil,
you must have died once
in Seville, in the land of Machado,
before going again last Saturday
in Fresno, so you no longer write
to us or bring in trash bins filled
with light. Phil, I will die, maybe
on a Sunday in Wellfleet, because
today it is Sunday, and ice
is jamming the eaves, and there
is nowhere to put the snow
that keeps recalling all
those other snows—
or the stones on more stones.