Classic Poem

The earlier dandelions lose
their lustre now, and the shadblow theirs,
and the violets theirs. But the moon's bright —
flat on one side, round on the other
like a stone lifted out of a brook — and in fact

is a stone and is lifted
and hangs there. . . . You would think
we'd gravity enough and to spare
in one street, or one room,
or one head, to haul it hard home,
that stone kite. What wind
blows there that the weight of the world
barely can balance, barely can keep
from tearing a trillion tons of dead metal
away to leeward like a loose page
of the day's news or a wilted petal?