Lightless, exposed,
the moon looks closer now.
And awkward, suspended there,
hung like an ornament, a trapped balloon.
Lifeless, in milky yellow,
sits the moon reduced to relativity:
the moon about the Earth, in lock-step,
like Eve to Adam.
No longer the warden of night,
the marker of months,
no Clair de Lune, no Moonlight Sonata,
but a hunk of rock—still, how spherical—
bound to us, and kept at arm’s length.
EWV
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