And the absence of moonlight,
lying here staring at my ceiling
because I can’t see the sky.
By the dim light of my little leaning
tower of pisa lamp-a tiny plastic architectural wonder,
with its small switch so old and functional-
I didn’t see it coming.
It’s the lunacy
that keeps me wondering how you are,
if you are seeing that moon again tonight, the same one
in the backyard
with the feathery tips of evergreens jabbing into it.
How crazy it was to have spied it together,
when things weren’t so strained.
I think you have me staring at this ceiling
while you stare at the moon.
I think you have lunacy, too.
I want to tell you about a lunatic’s sweetness,
galvanized by her belief that somehow
all this isn’t her fault.
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