Moon

On the coldest of nights
the moon
will be a huge searchlight,
shining like a bright button,
a bone orange,
before the day
is even done.

On nights like these,
that are just on the edge
of happening, you will be
sitting with your friend –
in the Orange
Tree, when he’ll ask if you want
to see a haiku – above the trees.

On nights like these
he’ll take your hand,
and tell you just
to shut your eyes
and walk carefully,
crossing the road,
till you get to the curb

and when you open your eyes
it’ll be a pale blue lie
and you’ll watch it together
wowing with pleasure,
like children,
in a private game.
On night’s like these

it’ll follow you home,
with the glinting white
of a dinner plate
and they’ll be a boy
playing a harmonica
and the light will be spilling
everywhere.

On night’s like these,
you’ll drive to Derby
on a pointless mission
and tell the man
you happen to sit with
the darkest thing about yourself
On night’s like these,

you’ll remember the moment
that it left your lips,
in the fog filled light
of the next day,
moon on the dashboard,
hands interlaced.
On night’s like these,

you’ll lie awake, in a bedroom
that still lacks curtains
and bathe in the moonlight
as it lanterns the window
and makes you see
how skin and sight
are not the same –

on nights like these.
You’ll wonder how a
vast dead rock
can float through space,
millions of miles, far away
and still be able
to speak to you.