Man In The Moon

Tonight, there’s no man in the moon.
Last night’s moon was a thin nail paring,
nothing to write home about,
yet a presence the eye could hold on to.
Two evenings before, it was
a generous slice of light, something you
could sink a hungry look into.
And only last Saturday, one day past full,
round as a meditating Buddha,
and incandescent, how sultry it appeared.
Seductive enough to bring about
a population surge nine months from now
and a raft of April weddings.
Then, it was possible to imagine not only
a solitary individual living there,
but families, entire tribes, a civilization
born old and aging backwards.
Yet what a difference a week can make.
Having vanished entirely,
that bright bulb seems to have imploded.
There is not even a gap in
the sky showing where it used to reside.
Its memory is now merely
a twinkle, encoded by the hippocampus.
Tonight, the moon is in the man.


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