Sitting on the moon’s rim
all that can be seen
is her mountains, flatland,
a pale asphalt.
Tonight
you pull me from my
poems.
We view a new crescent
from our roof.
You tweak the lens
of your telescope,
steer me into
the ocular
where in the black velvet void,
the moon’s inner arc
is a filigree
of bright white lace.
