The moon’s the first note you play on the piano, the chord
your hands can never quite master. The Unfinished Symphony,
a work in progress, the Miraculous Pitcher, the world’s oldest

coin trick, a game of solitaire on a glass-topped table.
The moon’s a flower forever unfolding, a button forever
becoming undone. The moon is the ship that never

comes in, the moon is the cat that never comes back.
The moon’s n old lady hanging out her panties, the moon
is the wet dream that won’t wash away. The moon is a verb

conjugating itself, the moon is the poem you’ re afraid to write.
A note in a bottle, a letter to Santa, the phone call that comes
when you’ re not home. The moon is the drunkard who dances

alone. It’s all four corners, the winning ticket,
the hit that always clears the fence. A litany, a rosary,
a four-part invention, the perfect equation.

The andante, the encore, the solo, the coda,
the moon is the fat lady who brings down the curtain,
the moon is the symphony with just enough notes.



--evie robillard

Published in Linnet's Wings Winter Issue, 2013