Don’t try to tempt me; I can’t be tempted.
Maybe in a dark distant place in the center
of me, I’m tempted, but the door to the room
is locked and rarely is anything sent out.
When I do visit that room, long after
you’ve left, I find things lying on the floor
and the table pulled out from the wall,
so I put everything back where it was.
My heart is a waxing November moon.
There’s a face on it--a man, if you like--
that looks at you, but there he stays, far out,
surrounded by countless, even more distant stars.
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