Look at the place where the moon

used to be; there’s a hole burned

in the sky, the slick fabric

opaque and colorless there,

dusty clouds hurrying to cover the

spot. The sun tries to rise through

a crack in the shell;

rose and magenta come spilling past us.

Worn fingers rush to mend the

tear before she sees it,

where the moon stood too close

to the edge.

by Cher Bibler