The last day of April, last post, although I’ll keep writing a poem a day.
How close “refuse” as garbage, sounds like “refuge” – a curious thing, to think our moon— we have left our “garbage” on the face of the symbol of so much imaginative “refuge”...
perhaps we should refuse—
convenience
"à l’écart"
thrown away in crisp clattered start
into a different r’s shopping cart).
**
Gravity
The moon is full—
fully pulling
her out into a quieter space
paced for her among the stars
for a few brief hours.
The moon, full
and pocked by
copper pipes and pieces
left by Apollo missions
still quietly pulls.
Moon, no matter how lit,
or littered,
no matter if she appears
slivered, quartered, halved,
pulls us into
dream, with just enough
gravity to lighten
our leaps.
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