I will give you one glimpse 
a glimpse of the moon's grievance  
whose appearance is all pocks and points  
that look like frost-glints

I will wave my hand to her 
in her first quarter 
when the whole world is against her  
shadowy exposure of her centre

o the moon loves to wander 
I will go clockwise and stare 
when she is huge when she is half elsewhere  
half naked, in struggle with the air

and growing rounder and rounder  
a pert peering creature 
I love her sidling and awkward  
when she's not quite circular

o criminal and ingrown 
skinned animal o moon 
carrying inside yourself your own  
death's head, your dark one

why do you chop yourself away  
piece by piece, to that final trace  
of an outline of ice 
on a cupful of space?