Why do I want the moon, which belongs
to you? Why do I drive against the foothills
like a maniac to moon hunt, when it’s gone
missing? I don’t understand
what’s happening to my physics. I might
need to live in a tent for a month, away
from streetlights and other blazes. I
might need a blade, need to cut
my hair and nails to slimmest crescents
and solve for white-pleated wings of moth,
sprung whole from phases, just to die
for light. You’ve packed up the not-
moon tonight, a hanging
promise: your light will come.
Go barefoot in the drought-powdered dirt.
Press hard against the hull
of cocoon. The strongest sit in the dust,
unknowing. The strongest
linger in the bind, wait
for faintest sliver,
emerge.