by Tess Gallagher

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.