Of Lunar Note
The shadow on the moon suggests
a sad and drooping eyelid.
How crude of Earth to censor
its timid little acolyte …
We stand in the cold and stare
so hard into the ether our necks
kink like last year’s garden hose.
The atmosphere’s cast in stone.
Breathing it costs more money
than we can afford. Politics
quicken in the south, while crime
shatters the north with mourning.
We’re facing south but feel the north
tighten its nooses to sever us
from what little remains of our voice.
We should go inside and embrace
the severity of the woodstove.
We shouldn’t let the night sky
apply its tongs to those organs
we’ve reserved for very old age.
The eclipse forms a statement
in a language not even those
adept with the gnarly math
of astronomy can interpret.
How can we impress ourselves
on the drama of the cosmos
without becoming protagonists?
The shadow engulfs the moon
as if an eye has shut against us.
We refuse to participate
in an excess of metaphor.
With a sigh of closure we step
inside to brew some cocoa
and pretend that loutish shadow
wasn’t cast by our design.