Thursday, February 18, 2016

PRACTICALLY

Last night—the porcelain-
blue moon,
though still

only half-
full,
could have almost

certainly—swelled to burst
and shed
its translucent

corona—in soft
shards, to shower
and feed the teeming covetous

young colonies of night-
snow marooned
on the bony sidewalks below, only:

I—too proud and too cool,
would not let
it do that.

For volume is a trick—I whispered,
before I knew
I was

even thinking it. The true way
to measure
a thing

is by
weight. (And I knew
this was true—and the unsatisfied

satellite
knew it
too.) So i

sighed, as I
turned and shuffled
back inside—ashamed.

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