moons, which ought to be
waning
but instead
go on, wraithlike, unmercifully
hanging,
all distorted
with the somnolent haze
of pollution
til you'd swear
they were fuller, and much
nearer by than usual—
only prove to me now,
as I pull the shade down on this
last apartment window,
how I've never loved those
whom I've lost
half as well
as I do on the nights
when I know they're not
close.
