The moon

The moon is almost full, I think.
It watches out of place in this full world
between a streetlamp and a jet
as if it knew not where to stand.
It sinks to earth with laughter on its face.
This is insanity that frightens us. We laugh
while saying to ourselves this is the end.
The moon creeps closer like a mountain
or a love whose days are numbered.
Even what takes place slowly will take place.
The spirit that draws the moon down
only pauses, never slumbers.

It’s hard to believe you had thousands of nights
as a child you no longer remember.
Life isn’t long, but eternal, which means always
and never at the same time. If you can’t imagine
what the world was like before your birth,
it is because the world’s a ghost and you are not.
The moon had a beginning; it was made
after the edges of the world were set.
That’s why it must someday disappear.

It must be beautiful to be a temporary thing,
as beautiful as it is to last and never fade.
Everything would taste of its disappearance.
Every spring you would say to yourself,
“The last time I might see this green,”
and every fall would overwhelm with sorrow
heaven never gets to feel. You would hold
to every moment with your child, your parents.
You would go places and do things
you have meant to do for years.
You would above all not be here,
where the road forks, and you pace
the final stretch for years on end.