the moon was pale garnished
reconstituted from burnt fuses
the sheer mastery of it blanched
the ever so subtle suggestion
that something new take place
just out of view and reach
some rapt parlance to teach us distance
is not what it infers
either in wakefulness or slumber
Ah the moon, the poets delight! One wonders what we might have reached for if not the moon. Maybe the stars so far away, or love so much further, what ever it always seems to be just out of reach.
