There are 7.8 billion poems about the moon;
having read none of them,
I wonder:

If all her glowworms cast their eyes to her size
and whimper amongst themselves: why she so low—
then what does she do?

Diddly.

She’s dim tonight and semi-
predictably glorious in dimness.
She’s so dim she salts the sky with sizzling stars
so dim as to make the tides tempered
sometimes so dim as to make the tides crazy.

Her dimness has nothing to do with her mood
nothing to do with her attitude nothing about
insecurity, assessing herself she sees her usefulness.

When she’s bright she’s bright! Boy, she’s bright!
She’s bright enough to clog all the street gutters,
bright enough to hoe up fields before harvest,
bright enough to surf the piano she plays upon
and bright enough to good-nature the darkest of pines.

She should be bright. She deserves
to be bright, she deserves to have veils of herself
descend to her kin; reflecting the sun she is
the sun! Oh, how beautiful she is!

To say she deserves to never be dim—
the human condition coats itself again in sticky cherries
and what does she do?
Exactly as she does.
She’s the moon.

 

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