In the morning mirror
stares back at you like
the moon: sunken basalt
cheeks, lips ashen, a wasteland
of craters and echoes. Astronomers
of old dubbed the dark spots
lunar maria, seas of the moon,
but that was erroneous. We now
know what we see is the
aftermath of volcanic eruption.
Scorched skin, pitted by colossal
impacts, now cool, untouched, eroded.
When light shines full, darkness
surfaces, a patchwork of
sorrows ancient and disfiguring. It
conjures tides and tilts as it rises to
zenith each night. It spins synchronously
with the chaos of the lower world. It
grows more distant every year, they say.
It makes this planet livable,
they say.
