Moonlooking


It’s waxing crescent-
a slim cuticle
on the black worktop
of night.

Its hugeness floating

and me
enamoured to the weight
of all that is this Earth,

I feel cupped
in the presence of Everything.

I remember
some weeks back

in its fullness,
how it sat

on a sliver of clouds

a communion wafer
dissolved by the tongue.

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