The moon is always one or t’other,
turning and yet apparently fixed,
a cycle of contradictions.
The moon is always pulling the seas like fishing nets,
somewhere,
a harbinger of somebody else’s night and day.
It’s behind our closed lids
and casts a spotlight on things of the night, undesired.
It carries the blame for ill.
The moon is never away, even when we can’t see it.
Even when hidden behind thick clouds
like white text on a white page.
The moon is never a round mint that disintegrates softly on the tongue.
There is never an unmoonness.