FULL MOON, By Eamon Grennan

Clouds curdle round it, crack open, let it through.

Radiance shaded by cloudshapes; fat fruit

of incandescence; sphere of peeled silver. I wonder

what living by such light would be: soft

collusion of moonshine with grey gables; walls

in a whitewashed trance; argentine grass; twigs

limned in pewter. Ambition and rage all faded

from the air, the air subdued to a new sense

of self, something intimate and sure about the way

it whispers subtle truths neighbor to neighbor--

or how its ashen luminescence slides inside things

so they shed the cinder skin of what goes on

day by day in daylight, and start breathing.