The moon startles me again.
How it hovers
above the prairie
in the middle
of a January afternoon.

How it hangs
like a faded paper
lantern left over
from an illumination night
festival held at the end

of some summer last century.
You will never be my bride
of the patron saint

of 101 chances. I will
never be the rock
that keeps the door ajar
just enough. I will never give
myself a break

in the darkness. No, I will break
a glass to relieve the tension
between dormant wisteria vines
and the pedestrian bridge
they dangle over. I don’t want

to know what will happen
when the lake ice-in
and ice-out dates

clash, overlap, dissolve.
When the moon refuses
to rise and the thin places
disappear into the seam
between never and ending.