Earth’s moon is never new,
There’s no replacing her.
Either you see all her wintered face
Or she sends scraps
Through bandages of shade.
She doesn’t want your talk
Assuaging, failing to assuage,
Only your sleepless eyes
As she gropes her way
Across the cobbled stars,
Clutches at sun
To heal her secret hurt.
She has too much to carry,
Sees too far beyond our suburb
To be happy exactly.
She’s the sort of wreck
Who knows what it may cost
To unshape this abyss,
Its quarterless dark,
To get where we must go
From where we are.
