by Kathleen Adcock

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.