Inclined to Moon

 We saw a particular moon on a particular morning

and rated both moon and morning poem-worthy

although I don’t, as a rule, assemble

collections of phonemes for the moon, or sun, or sea,

or love. The moon appeared at its largest,

butter yellow nearing the hazy horizon

a disproportionate scrapbook cutout

on blue paper dusted with glitter, exaggerated

by placement and because it told us

to take note. We tried to say something

in our moon-moment but uttered nothing

other than oh, and wow; our mouths

moon-circles until we had to admit

there were no shapes

to fill this particular lack.