The Brooklyn Rail

ALL OUR EYES HAVE SEEN THE MOON

Bombax and Tabebuia trees blush
under the silvered light of our romantic
satellite, leading to a curious question –

what if truth were the moon?

what else circles us, immemorial
until the sun engorges its solar
system. what else shades
and blooms and shades again
keeping its secrets subdued
on cloudy nights, visually absent
in broad daylight?

its shadows are craggy. and the wrinkles
of the old man? they too
are tired

just as the falsity of blue moon shimmers
with azure anticipation
only to be proved axiomatic
coincidental to Latinate months
whose names tie to moons
inexactly

so the name of truth is impossible to file
atmospheric

only different facets of rotation
show different angles of light

images circle truth like the moon circles Earth
they crackle and bite
out of the clouds, like that ancient moon
every night, orbiting

jointed, swerving
glowworm in the blurred night

we pretend it isn’t present
there’s no moon tonight we say