Mångata

she is pulled by the moon    
her way traced  
like light on water,    
her fingers    
raking the shore    
pulling it deeper    
than he can see    
even in dreams    
   
and he by the sun    
by the hand and the gun    
and lays his head on rocks    
and makes his bed on nails    
and he is born to this    
and she to that    
and each is only a piece    
of a thing    
and where, sweet jesus,    
is the other piece    
of me?