Moon

The moon is an angel with a bright light sent
To surprise me once before I die
With the real aspect of things

-William Meredith

Now these dark years later,
it seems the messenger
angel has taken flight.
The moon is just a hole
worked by a pale moth on
the black fabric of night.

She beats her dusty wings
against the sky, hungry
as a lost soul for light.
The dull and powder stars
soil her random wake,
a litany of loss

haphazard as your own
with speech gone and the brain's
lovely light confounded,
the real aspect of things
sure as the reflection
in a fun-house mirror

When suddenly your gaze
splits the dark like blue light
cracking a block of ice.
You are the lost angel
smiling on the night and
illuminated by

the golden light that pours
through a perfect circle.
"Look," you say, pointing to
the sky, like reaching from
the silver surface of
a mirror, "look, the howl moon."