PURITANICAL

You have begun
to see—

not everything 

that shines

reflects the light 

of purpose, 

nor is everything 

your outreached fingers encounter 

necessarily there 

for you 

to use.

The moon—for instance, 

looks delicious

down here,

like the plump fruit
of heaven's 

infinity tree—ripe

and rolled 

out into plain view 

only for you; 

when it's just
miles 

and miles 

of unconstructive gray dust—
no lavender mountains

no sweet cream 

butter, no old jazz,

no breathable atmosphere. 

And yet, still

you cannot keep

from wondering—if all 

of the pain

from way
back then

might somehow, 

someday

return—and

apologize to
you.