We’ll follow up with bits of crockery, broken
to look like the moon in its crescent phase,
broken to meet our requirements for danger
and sharp edges. We’ll have daily conversations
about the best way to light the space under our feet
in order to see where we’re stepping.
It’ll all be different, without the moon.
There will be so many fragments to sort
and catalogue. We might as well become curators
or people who polish glass for a living.
Lovers will question the idea of balconies.
Others will pocket pieces of the moon to sell
at auction. Lots of people will want
pointless memories, the sound of the ocean,
the way voices soften in moonlight.
We’ll be too busy pulling splinters from our skin
and sucking the wounds. Our mouths will be
hard miracles, stars no longer trusted.