On Rain Washed Paper Dried, Ink

On rain washed paper dried, ink
still blurs. But all words
are stains. The paper’s rippled
lunar, mountain and crater,

and seas on the moon, misnomer
of plains that looked like
water once, no-end-to-it shadows,
fractal to fractal. The telescope’s eye

fooled the eye. From there, does
earth rise and set? Or a thrush,
would it sing its trouble backward?—
the most private tremor first, then

the public part, famously
melodic but fierce, really it’s
fierce: stay the f*ck away. I know
that lie, Sea of Tranquility.