If you could turn the moon
on a lathe, you would
because you are curious.
And that would explain
why the moon slivers,
but explain it stupidly
by not taking care
to ask how the moon rounds.
And so we go, stupid ideas
for feet. The better to wander
with, retort the feet,
and what can you say,
you who shaved those taut
spirals from the moon,
kinks of tightening light
that fell away from your attention
to your work growing smaller
the better you did it?
Threads on a screw, the worm
of a corkscrew, the circular
staircase to sleep....
Soon the moon is gone
as far as it can go and still come back.
Soon there'll be no room
for you: the moon will be all
stomach, like a melon.
The nest you've been meaning
to leave is inside, aslosh with seeds.
Around the outside you curl
like the sky that goes away forever.
