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.
