How It Was and Is

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.