by Tess Gallagher

And if there were two moons，

who would sleep when one

passed before the other

and took it in

on its dark side？ Wouldn't

some extra light ray out

around the sustaining one？

Wouldn't you sense

the two in one， even if you'd

never seen them parted？

Sometimes a glory

is just that—a guessing-into

the seen， noticing

the fringe of presence

when it comes， trying to match

its fervency by something

as tangible， something

only you are equal to.