ABSTRACT
Under this mountain of tires, this baby buggy’s rusting frame, buried under the cage of a bird whose plaintive phrase once occupied the narrow canal just below music; under rotted shingles, tangled springs, mattresses soaked with the juices of love, of illness, with the sweat of the overworked and the simply tired; buried under chipped cups, stained rugs, bundled printed matter and loaves of upswept leaves; all soaked with rain, stewed by sun, under all this there lies another perfect moon-similar, I was told, to the one simmering now up there, above our easy laughter, lake with moored canoe, our future fattening like a strawberry. And I said I would dig for this moon, dig until I could find it, dig until I could put its terrible light out.
