How gorgeous that moon— a dazzling chandelier!
A land without air—
not at all a better world —
it would kill me given half a chance.
I never tire of it.
Every full moon, half moon--any phase of it--feels
new and gay, lighting my nights,
counting my days.
I see myself bouncing in its spiky dust.
Eyes fixed on earth below—
that gorgeous palace!
The shock of seeing home
alone in that empty awesome black
would change me.
Years after, while brushing my teeth, that memory
would assail me—blue earth circling
in the ink of infinite sleep.
It would stop my pulse. The mystery of it.
The total mystery of it.
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