Sumerians said the moon was a man

and named him Nit, but those half-wits are dead

now and were dead wrong then–28 days,

for Heaven’s ache, a loss and gain each month,

the Mayan cooking pot slowly getting full

then empty, steady as a tide, a blessedly

soft female light, no glaring old man

or ball of green cheese, not a baleful

banjo or the swelling hoop of an angel’s

mouth mid-song, she’s rock

and dust and pockmarked ruin

a cast-off slab of old Pangea

she has no seas and is not tranquil nor shy

even when eclipsing she’s not passive

or ceramic or idiomatic she’s

universal no rehearsal necessary

hits her marks and never skips out

even when slipping through the various

gauzy disguises of cirrus clouds and mists this

self-begotten modest wunderkind

author of spectral silvered meadow grasses

and snow-crystal glisten mistress,

last-minute inspiration of countless

sweet and sacred acts of belly-kissing love.