Lunar Lines, by Nancy Gaffield
After Jack Spicer’s ‘Thing Language’
This moon, ambivalent in its vault
Paler than a death mask.
You want to hold it. The moon
Does not want to be implicated. Crescent
Or gibbous. It remains
It is iron and loam,
Ice and stone. The caretaker
That observes the asylum. Randomly
It scatters the stars. Faint and frivolous tinsel. No
One can hold it.