the lune -
a tick, a tock,
a rickety rocket ship
races towards

the crescent -
does it know she's a sphere?
an illusion, based on the date
a figure shifter,

lift her higher
sift through clouds,
the marriage of dust and water vapor,
fogging up the night

chip at her desire
can't let her fly
she has to be in sight,
curbing the course of

the determined curvature -
she'll stay for now
floating in the airy dark sea
reflecting in the waters below

keep her attuned
to the hour at hand
once the sun wakes,
back to oblivion she'll land

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