Sometimes the moon
moves with clouds on its face
across the long loneliness of sky,
and I wonder about the side
I cannot see, a quiet side
behind the glow,
too sad to join the stars.
Maybe this is where its heart
beats with the ache of being
alone on the same journey
around and around; maybe this
is the side that sees us below
lost in sleep, inhaling the emptiness
of darkness and reaching
for a lover’s hand.

Tonight I long to fly to this side
of the moon, leave around midnight,
whiz past satellites and space stations
and abandon depression in its shadow,
dump it there like a sack of garbage
then be home before my wife
turns to me in a dream, before
my son cries for a glass of water,
before its unyielding sadness grips
me again. How I ache to leave depression
where it can’t find me then
redeem the years my family
struggled to reach me: husband,
father, a meteor in their house
stalled in flames of despair.