When last in a bed not mine, I slipped up from sleep to find myself silvered, lightened, loned. The moon, the moon, it was the moon in the east window of that stranger place, the moon nearly full, the moon in slow traverse, the moon, and I was in it, and I slept again, not soundly, but selved.
Last night, lying to sleep early, light where I never see it. The moon, the moon, it was the moon in my south window, the moon singing nothing, scant signer, simply staring, so palpable that I could not but resume my sight, could not but look and see and look and lose, and lose, and lose.
Tonight's sky, stratified, silent, seemingly too late for light: palest, paler, pale, then the luminescent dark before a day-off moon, the summer pinpricks of first stars, the solstice stealthily sooning, the year's light grace gathering to leave.