Under a Supermoon
Gazing at a supermoon when a portion of Earth’s shadow
slides across the lunar surface,
I have no desire to twirl in space on an oxygenating cord;
I have no desire to plunge
to the bottom of the Mariana Trench and observe snailfish.
On the highway, someone
is driving to lab, to pueblo, to abandoned uranium mine
and is always driving farther,
driving faster. I slow it down and rejoice in minutiae:
a gold flare in cottonwood leaves,
the smell of split piñon and juniper in a garage,
and recall Blake’s
if the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.
I don’t know that I am any wiser,
but I have persevered; as I gaze at the darkening craters
and smell apples on branches
and on grass, I catch how this life has exploding, exploded,
and birthing stars inside it.
This poem appears in the July 2025 print edition.