by Chris Farago.
Moon, I painted you twenty times last week,
Praising your inconstancy with my brush and my oils.
You are not like that liar Sun,
Who wears the same face daily,
Hiding behind her heat.
Your silent aria inhabits me with a touch, Moon,
That melody opening my veins,
Showing my eyes how to close,
To stay closed through the rain,
To sleep through the apocalypse.
Moon, I photographed you, too,
Teaching myself how to adjust your light
(For it is always your light, no matter what
Those dread stars report).
Rather, I adjust to your light, Moon,
Learning how to see myself in you,
To see others filtered through your pale cast.
O Moon, I know you leave and come back,
Or I leave and come back,
And that your orbit is nothing but
An inveterate wobble. But, please, Moon,
Hear my plea: you will stay and I will stay
On the same slow, rambunctious track,
If only for a few slim hours
As we trace the savannah together.