tracking the moon

this is the poem that says everything,
but you will not understand.

the dark is a comfort,
the quiet does not deter.

i see myself a mythic figure
in your book of secrets,

my own book is buried,
though the dirt under my nails
hints at recent digs
into cold earth.

this is the poem that says nothing
because there’s nothing you might need.

watching the sun’s daily arc
as determined birds fling themselves at my door.

the intruder is not my nightmare,
the song on the radio is not my fate.

my poems all say the same thing,
and i can no longer translate,
spoken in my language of pretext,
love still lives here, too.