The Smudge

There was a smudge on the moon last month.

My fists clench as I grasp my escaping calm, my eyes flickering.

My voice has escaped, and I cannot bring it back.

For crying out loud, there was a smudge on the moon last month.

 

There was a smudge on the moon last week.

My mind is racing itself, no winner emerging,

And nothing can pull a smile or a sound from me.

I mean, there was a smudge on the moon last week.

 

There was a smudge on the moon last night.

I froze below it, my lips rounded, but my throat still,

I choke in silence in its regard, rivetted beneath its marred light.

For there was a smudge on the moon last night.

 

There’s a smudge on the moon tonight.

I frantically strain upwards, but it’s miles beyond my reach.

Staring with stretched, frenzied eyes and rushing blood.

Because there’s a smudge on the moon tonight.