Looking at the moon

I look at the moon:
two innocent spheres of white
joined by light with a kindred form.

My spirit is already there:
only my body holds back:
since gravity has thrown about a cloak
which my being wears
reluctantly.

And the cloak is the body itself:
a fleshy jacket
to retard the soul's celerity.

Otherwise, I would blaze out
in a single instant
and make my home upon that star,
in the fields of infinite beauty.