RENÉE M. SGROI

and in the evenings we watch the moon


phases, a comet’s tail spins
through binoculars, like a frantic
wasp, trapped in a glass jar.
last evening Venus, low in the sky
and naked to the eye, clear
as an incandescent bulb
glows out its filament.
above the streetlamp’s cone of light, 
on cold nights we stare through
the glare from our bedroom window
at the stars, pretend to be
philosophical, to meditate 
on the celestial dust 
that runs through our veins.
you say things funny-strange,
like Swiss cheese and parmesan,
new boyish thoughts since your brain’s
strokes that endear, but also frighten.
what is it like for a mind to recognize
its containment in an unmoving body?
we watch how the moon slips
into its poses, how it draws us,
full, gibbous, waning,
though it distances itself each year
from oceans that will suffer.
the unexpected, unpredictable
movement of a small disk
causes a human body to eclipse, 
the mind to become as satellite.
in the evenings, we watch the moon.
all we hear, our own breaths, our whispers,
the odd car as we wait, hope
Ursa Major will appear