It may be that
the moon is pure gold
A gold piece thrown,
engulfed, in an ocean
of endless ink,
to lighten the
pirate ship chased by
gunfire.  I cannot say
for sure that the moon’s
reflection, stretched and
shimmering on top
of a dead calm sea
may not be melted silver
that was heated
‘til it rolled and
skimmed and rode the
surface unable to
gather itself, slipping
like mercury
through our fingers,
out of the grasp of
anyone or anything.
Leaving only a cold
cloud in the night sky
that may be the artist’s
smoke rising when the
last ash dropped away.
It may be that
or not anything,
It is only with certainty,
there is no mistake,
that we know when we
are lost from all,
feeling it is as true
as it may be.