by Tess Gallagher

    And if there were two moons，

    who would sleep when one

    passed before the other

    and took it in

    on its dark side？ Wouldn't

    some extra light ray out

    around the sustaining one？

    Wouldn't you sense

    the two in one， even if you'd

    never seen them parted？

    Sometimes a glory

    is just that—a guessing-into

    the seen， noticing

    the fringe of presence

    when it comes， trying to match

    its fervency by something

    as tangible， something

    only you are equal to.