Now I look west
                  toward Tompkins Square Park
         Lunar light gleams
                  on my East Village street

         It is the sound of the dark
                  stepping with its light feet
                           that in the stillness hovers

         Descending stairs to the curb
                  water drains away
         The last storm has gone out like a light

         Caution—do not disturb
                  the wet city at night
                           It is nursing its lovers

         Caught in a tree
                  above Tompkins Square Park
         Cold, our simple moon does not
                  try to break free

         On the clouds its light mark
                  like a stamp holds the tree
                           to the sky and to me
                                     holds the night

         To think now of the past
                  easily so I am fooled
         but the moon’s past is so great
                  next to mine, next to this

         Winter moon, and the cold
                  turns these streets into ice
                           Tompkins Park turns to white

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