PolyArchive

Although a tide turns in the trees

       the moon doesn’t turn the leaves,

though chimneys smoke and blue concedes

       to bluer home-time dark.

Though restless leaves submerge the park

       in yellow shallows, ankle-deep,

and through each tree the moon shows, halved

       or quartered or complete,

the moon’s no fruit and has no seed,

       and turns no tide of leaves on paths

that still persist but do not lead

       where they did before dark.

Although the moonstruck pond stares hard

       the moon looks elsewhere. Manholes breathe.

Each mind’s a different, distant world

       this same moon will not leave.