Stabbed through the leather of night's black air

The moon was a perfect circle, shedding the light of what I imagine to be a world beyond the sky's shield,



reining in superiority over the stars, who are nothing more than pokes of a pencil.

I raised my hand up as I always do, to let my eyes show me each finger touching the distant picture

But the moon wasn't a picture.
Instead of perceiving my brighter flesh graze a duller, distant setting,

The moon wasn't a picture.
It held my hand, slipping light between each finger as it paled them,
humoring my vain contemplations of the impossible white. Then,
the moon let me hold itself for a turn,

Craning my neck to get a closer look at the darkened freckles across its surface.