I have nothing new to say about the moon.
And the best I can do about the heart
is in the picture window across the street:
a thin, changing outline of light—from winter blue
to lemon yellow to spring green to amethyst,
a slow-throb valentine to the night.
I won’t say what darkness it dispels,
or at least resists, what menace
has just paid a visit, or is about to.
No need to be so time-specific. Time
has a way of recycling its dreadful
greatest hits, even as we’re dead set
against them. When it comes to phases,
the moon knows enough to show, not tell,
a more reliable narrator than I’ll ever be.
It says no darkness is absolute. Tonight
seems to agree, warm enough I can savor
a dark beer on the stoop. And the changing heart
is right here, watching for its old brother
to rise again, tireless in his brilliance.
One beacon in the dark, signaling to another.