the universe is made of poetry, and all a poet can do is try to capture imperfect impressions of it
when i look eastward
up into the bright blue sky,
drenched in afternoon,
and the gibbous moon
drifts serene with the white clouds,
while birds flit across,
i am at a loss.
i can't chain this unbound flight
to a notebook's page.
the form of the phase
resists nounification,
making things awkward.
the shape lacks a word;
a sharp edge, and a soft one,
almost full, but no.
a "gib", i suppose.
but no words really capture
the blue and white braid.
english isn't made
for girls who love gibbous moons
on nice afternoons.
