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The moon, polished and thinned by pattern, is high
in a clear sky, is bathed by light, and intends
nothing, is portent to no great event, at least this night.
What in the world holds meaning, and what we
pour meaning into, like beer into a glass, can't
really be told apart, at least with certainty.
Like that would stop us, right.
Meaning this late is something for tomorrow,
which maybe is all meaning is, but
somehow all of that in one direction, out,
like water from a well to the deep dark sky
seems strange. All is reflection and tug
from something else -- ask the moon,
which won't answer -- and the answer
to nothing... and something is missing
that we tongue and worry like a lost tooth.
But something is hidden, shadowed, some part
of a part of the larger whole of the truth, something
shaped like the edge of what is missing in us.
We call it names and sing to it, and hope
that what's there is the lobe of an ear
to catch our praise and tell us we mean,
something to outlast a night's reflected light.