Paraphrase
From the moon whose many deaths meant only to console us
a faint promise whose absence is no fault of the weather. Outside of this
window a new psalm and therefore a tanager
which does not belong here
and has, after all the archetypal traumas and then some,
thought of settling in whereabouts vague
and untranslatable, yet never settled,
hardly ever resting on this branch
beginning to build itself a home out of what we know
to call kindling in the cicatrix of a crepe myrtle which
from time to time will flourish
so completely, the fact of its own
withering is lost among the boughs’ pomp and color.