The moon, it just sat there tonight,
mostly eaten by the old year
and its shadows,
the year to come like its bright skin
shining, burning away the rest.
They say it’s God’s fingernail,
but that’s only what we can see of it.
In reality, the whole underbelly is bulging
with light
on the other side of our atmosphere.
Anyway, it couldn’t be that only the tip of Him
brushes the galaxies,
but I think He is actually not far from
each one of you,
His thumbprint the back of a mole skin,
And the knot on the bark of the elm,
And the fronds of new moss,
And your eardrum, and thumb wrinkles,
And the compounding keratin cells of your own
fingernail.
In other words,
the Lord is near.
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