We’ve not been the same since the moon
fell apart piece by one and three and nine.
You lay out in the crash, feel the dusty
moon-skin powder your face real pretty.
The position of your arms says you
aren’t worried about the larger chunks.
Like our lives you say, what falls away
ends up somewhere in the south.
This is one of those real prophecies.
That is why we mustn’t worry about
the weight of our socks. Gravity is
moody. Tonight it fails. It’s all ours.
We’re not interested in what is whole.