Grounding the Moon

Look: with a long iron rod

I’ve hooked and grounded the moon.

It was only an old kite tangled

in a dead pine. We can sell it,

or present it to a museum,

or tack it above our fireplace

above the photos on the mantel.

Although I’ve erased its fame,

proven all its legends false,

this rag of a moon still phosphors

with the entire sunlit spectrum.

You laugh and claim I’ve grounded

a flimsy toy that has nothing

to do with the moon. Then why

is the sky so empty? Its night-gaze

now lacks color and dimension.

Why would just any old kite

flaunt such an eloquent glow?

I toss it into the wind and it wafts

straight into the upper spheres

where celestial forces pin it

to its old perch. We could have earned

money and fame by displaying

the wreck. But you didn’t believe

the moon hovered so close to us

anyone could reach up and snag it,

resolving all that terrible depth.