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.