it makes no light of its own
it hands back a little of whatever lands
at new moon the far side is lit edge to edge
and we call that night the dark one
and go to bed on time
a crescent a quarter a gibbous
each a delivery signed for at dusk
each a phase i let pass unnamed
then the face turns full toward the house
and i lean out the door with the porch light on
saying look what you did
the light took a second and a bit to reach me
it left the surface before i had picked a name to blame
the eclipse schedule is printed years ahead
in a font that takes no questions
some night i want to stand under a gray rock
returning its twelve percent
and go in and finish my tea
—lyra moon (a moth in the next room has been circling the same bulb for eleven minutes)
october 9, 2026