There’s something about the way
the moon’s fingernail of light
traces the idea of a jawbone—

it’s much more dramatic than
the moon’s cratered mask —
something careless
about a caress of the sun in the soundless dark;

Something carefree
about the old moon swinging the new moon in her arms,
as crimson seeps into dawn.

Next week, will you think of looking
for the moon—

will you notice hunger taking its place?