Aubade with Still-Visible Moon

Ryan Bollenbach

 I can’t tell if the moon is suspended in the sky,
or if the moon is the white shining bottom of the intergalactic
column on which the sky rests.

                                 Because I’m tired, I’d rather assume
the moon is a peep hole in the black trash-bag over heaven
so I don’t have to consider that God’s strange wrath

is the same on every planet: the itch of grass
like fire ants on my calves, and dew mooring
on my ankles like the time wasted waiting for the ant’s bite.

I don’t remember the difference in length of your fingers
held to mine,
                    and when that half-inch of flesh and bone comes
throbbing back, I won’t remember this morning’s hum,

but I will remember the moon;

how it watches unblemished, never blinking,
like God’s glass eye.