How you can't move moonlight--
you have to go there and stand in it.
How you can't coax it from your bed to come and shine there.
You can't carry it in a bucket or cup it
in your hands to drink.
Wind won't blow it.
A bird flying through it won't tear it.
How you can't sell it or buy it or save it or earn it or own
it, erase it or block it from shining
on the mule's bristly back, dog's snout, duck bill,
cricket, toad.
Shallow underwater stones gleam underwater.
And the man who has just broken the neck of his child?
He's standing by the window moonlight
pouring on his face and throat.