Phrases of the moon

it's 4:45am.

All night I drempt, then forgot it all.
To wake, to stare out this small window, one of thousands, probably millions
One for everyone who is worth a listen, a moment's consideration
I search out my window, blinded by sodium glow and white headlights.
I search the sky, but see nothing: no pulsing tower, no distant green hill, no eclipsing moon.

Shorts and a jacket and Sperry's and American Spirits.
It is always the same here, the moisture air drifts through the lamp light
and chills my legs.
I search the sky for this promised moon, and there in the west it was: a blurry round shroud over its face... just as girl that hides from grace.

In one night you can witness the phases
those that would the better part of a month.
In a moment I can sum up the phrases,
those that are spoken over an entire year.
In an entire night, I can swing from excitement to sorrow
from delighting brightness to washed-worn and borrowed.

And you can still fit a mold, though I know you don't
and you can still feed your gaunt soul; erase the pain.
I heard you can't remember pain.
But you still fit the mold, so easy to do when you slide,
unhurried, unworried
into place.

The shadow 'cross the moon is creeping left, giving way to the clearest tranquility, the whitest blanket, the brightness golden and I thought of you.
All those rational things, they make sense, don't they?
The safety...all that beautiful security... the freedom for struggle
the freedom given so early. All for only what you've relinquished for much less.
All those times before.

I wonder why there is no pocket marble model of the moon. I wonder if I missed my chance to feel alive again with affection.
To lay out under the stars, in dewy grass and feel like all this is planned, and none of it is really that important.