Clean, sharp, a knife stepping from the shower.
A pock-faced snowglobe without the snow.
Moon, stop peering through the sunroof of my Volvo.
When it humps, the moon insists you hump.
Bump in the belly of an ex, bump of an object
beneath your car. And when it cries out
like a wounded raccoon, who will collect
donations for its rehabilitation? You?
After several costly surgeries, the moon is still hideous,
but oh, the arc of its nightly touchdown pass.
From the First World’s left ventricle I pump
my fist furiously for each small victory
while the moon circles back on itself:
notch another one for The End of History.