Lune

the sun is round, too.
the flat sort of round, from our perspective.
marker scribbled into the corner of a page,
ink saturating paper until it tears.

but the moon,
the moon is round like a face is round,
like an egg or a sourdough boule,
it reveals its depth to us.

the sun supplies a distant comfort,
too harsh to survive in any other fashion,
but the moon holds us close.

the hollow in the crescent
invites me to curl up inside it
and complete the shape myself

by a factor of more than 100,
the full moon outshines all the night stars.
a static backdrop, dimly lit, against which
our slow rotations are marked.

the moon lives with us,
inside the domed shell of the distant stars.
we are privy to its ever-shifting nature,
and we come to share it.

stars are nothing but what we make them,
names and faces we project over lightyears,
but we feel the moon’s will.

in the waxing and waning light at night
in the push and pull of our ocean tides
the moon invites itself here, to us