The August fog envelops us at night
so we are blanketed and see no stars,
and even when the moon is full, her light
appears a glow and hides her face. Like Mars
and Venus indistinct and unaware,
but inattention cuts, I think, both ways:
if gods above can’t see me they can’t care,
and so I’m free to orchestrate my days.

She glows with borrowed light and she reflects
a wedge of cauterizing splendor. She was torn
from out her mother’s side – a tide connects
what then was whole, and nothing can be born
of her, who beams on us a barren look
that’s bright enough at midnight for this book.