CLOTHED
Clothing himself in these common borrowed words,
A certain style, a certain habit, turns it all around.
Anonymous ubiquity becomes an intimate paced voice,
The poet emerges from the rough hedge glowing in the darkening evening.
Everyone has seen the full moon a thousand times,
Yet still now sighs and stands still.
Clothing ourselves in another’s memory
Or dreaming a dream not even ours:
The profoundest philosophy here,
A truth of who we are, think we are,
Where our edges blur and meet,
Where our voices change key and tone,
And slip into accents unfamiliar,
Where we stop being who we think we are,
And for a moment, if only ever for a moment,
We leap from the endless river, glinting and free
Into unfamiliar harvests of air and evening
On the floating view of somewhere we can never stay,
Returning so rapidly to the noisy rush of time and space,
Swept downstream, singing tunes with a cadence now not ours,
Now not solely ours.
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