Far Tide

The moon is wondering
whether to orbit or
shirk responsibility, whip off
to parts unknown, maybe displace Deimos
or juke Pluto.
She pulls
herself together every day just enough,
she is always
falling and missing, falling and missing
her mark, that’s what orbit means.
Tide is thankless
and she can still remember
being dust, spinning
together and fusing
and cracking apart.
She’s been cratered for ages
and maybe that boot on her face was the last straw.
The moon is wandering
towards the dark side,
the moon is waxing her surfboard
and staring into the sun.


(First appeared in Poems-For-All #1321)



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