The sky creaked closed as the man,
broad on his back, still wrapped and
half inside his tent, started 
to
stir under his parted

earthy hair. He woke up just
enough to catch the sun blush
through the tight seams of the earth’s
shredded red shirt. From the dirt

rose the sweet November cold.
The last light left, he unrolled
himself to greet the night and
felt the moon, soft in his hands

like a ball of fresh socks; one
dandelion picked, undone from
her dark stem. Whole, she hung high
until he breathed—it was like

a splash of silver fish, caught 
in
a boat’s gaping light, shocked
and spun, they spread. He groped
the moon like a bar of soap

and she slipped back to her black
basin. He felt cold and cracked,
left open at the globe, when
he could not hold her again.