The moon is not particular

            in her luminous ribbons,

sequins of wants—

 

a little space, maybe more time

present with the day

& less lost

 

in idle reflection, drunkenly aglow

in solipsistic waters, 

in frozen screens

 

where life scrolls endlessly past—

it’s a flight of geese

over powdered schist, 

 

a skinny dipper heaving his bag 

of proteins, lipids,

 cruelty & grace 

 

so sacredly to light the moon 

absolves 

everything.

 

She is a model of redemption & rebirth; 

of always seeing 

the other side of things.

 

Hardened as she is 

to partialities—

fragmentation—

 

perhaps a period of fewer changes, 

a brief hesitation

in weary tides,

 

delayed departure plans to dozing

migratory birds,

arguments set adrift,

 

misgivings kept under as our hearts 

glow a moment longer— 

round, luminous, perfectly full