Supermoon

I thought I’d never start a poem like this:

the moon…

it seems too cheesy

a bad joke, like that bad joke

but it is the moon seeming

larger looming, slicking

roofs sick of frost on the first night of spring

offering us; the bewildered

                                            answers

not found in rolling coverage of earthquakes,

a shoeless girl weeping the soaked tatami

where isotopes dare her wait a half life for love

or in the cracking of Africa’s burnt crust; 
the sudden end of history 
as we knew it the last time our moon dared so near.

Realpolitik in its ghostly glow breaks

free of the dossier haunting headlines

but doesn’t seem as mad, 
as you and I dear, raving
for nights as bright as this,

feeling wolf hungry, daring the lunatics

to draw their curtains, and set us free.