Look: with a long iron rod
I’ve hooked and grounded the moon.
It was only an old kite tangled
in a dead pine. We can sell it,
or present it to a museum,
or tack it above our fireplace
above the photos on the mantel.

Although I’ve erased its fame,
proven all its legends false,
this rag of a moon still phosphors
with the entire sunlit spectrum.
You laugh and claim I’ve grounded
a flimsy toy that has nothing
to do with the moon. Then why
is the sky so empty? Its night-gaze
now lacks color and dimension.
Why would just any old kite
flaunt such an eloquent glow?

I toss it into the wind and it wafts
straight into the upper spheres
where celestial forces pin it
to its old perch. We could have earned
money and fame by displaying
the wreck. But you didn’t believe
the moon hovered so close to us
anyone could reach up and snag it,
resolving all that terrible depth.