Niche

New moon means no moon
To see in the night.
The old one-word show
Goes on in the dark.
The black niche stands bare,

But the thought’s still there.
When it comes to words,
It’s the thought that counts.
The poem, in its bed,
Tracks the moon’s black arc

Through its head. Down here
We count the weird things
We think the moon means.
We watch our own lights.
What was that word for?

What was that word? Blood?
Gap? Torn? We will fight,
Wheel and deal our way
Through this no-moon night,
This rift, like all nights.

The word moon feels sad.
Less and less to do
With life, tide by tide,
Bit by bit, it drifts,
Lost word, from its niche.