The moon, cold and pockmarked and hard,
is not dainty.

The moon belches starlight,
has no gender.

The moon can’t tell missiles apart from
spaceships, dreamers from destroyers.

The moon does not know of phases:
the moon is always full.

The moon resists ideology. The moon prefers
NASA to SpaceX, leaves it at that.

The moon is curious about our goings-on,
but not overly so.

And the moon is what God is not: needless
of our prayers, able, if not to move

heaven and Earth, at least the oceans;
and, hanging like a tattered Michelangelo,

the Moon is more than a figment
of our imagination.