The moon is half steeped like an amber kerchief
in a silken breast-pocket; a lifting light
out of an ocean fathomless and black:
a late-blooming flower, up from the east
and over common rooftops. Moon of pregnancy
and moon of void; moon familiar and never more strange
as now and solitary, sudden and staring.
Outlier of the streetlamps, expectant exile
warmer and fuller above the empty
roadways, suburban streets suddenly home
to warm winds, unwitnessed in the dead of night.