Looking up,
for the rough-
ly thirteen
thousandth time,
at the inexorably
pocked and
cruelly battered
face of a
cockeyed three-
quarter moon—
as it placidly
sits there,
glowing away
and treading
the infinite waves
of this goalless
onrush of universe—
I am still thrilled
to believe
there must be
something left
to praise in me,
to wish for you,
to rescue—even if
it's lost out there
in the blackest
most boundless
of all possible
pools—where
there aren't any
words, or breaths,
or rules.
