The moon, a pin on the night’s oily wing,
will smile — sunlike — as it braves endless night,
halfway there, a thumb, not a toenail — ring
nor crescent, but a king in his own right.
But what king ties himself to agony
or looks too closely at God and is blind?
Reflective surface — mirror Domini
your face is too bright now for one to find
the carvings that boldly adorned your head
markings that show where there once laid a crown
too worn — a thorn — where many men have tread
hanging in endless night — oh take him down!
Put the moon in a box with other lies
Hope alone rests in this: the sun will rise.