Near the end, only one thing matters.
Yes, it has something to do with the moon and the way
the moon balances nervously
on the rooftops of neighborhood houses. You remember the landscape
of your childhood, your house and yard
the yards and houses of your friends. Near the end, though,
only one thing matters.
Maybe there was a wood where you played,
and that wood is gone now, paved over for parking cars.
At night, before sleep, it comes to you again —
your longing for the wilderness, the fox you saw last week
at the end of your cul-de-sac. Maybe you put out dog chow
and wait at night, on the back porch.
Maybe you tire and close your eyes. Things happen
when you close your eyes — an owl leaves a branch trembling,
the dog food disappears. You’d love to see that fox again.
Near the end, though, only one thing matters,
and nothing, not even the fox, moves as quietly.