Incessant moon that’s always missed
by city lights, whose signs kiss the darkness
and never let it be.
Yet there it is, palely reflecting
the star that cares little and less of our world.
We are specks on a blue dot and we are home,
but we don’t love our home.
We let it die, and we deny.
That’s easy. There’s a button for it.
The fog is black that
darkens our sky and our lungs.
It is become poison.
We will melt and starve and burn
and only then will we search again
for that lunar gift in the night’s sky.
A pale reflection of hope turned disaster.
We look to it. The lights no longer pollute.
We wish they’d done more.
We took the life-giving and made it
our righteous death.
The brightest star looks upon
the pale blue dot, but we are not there,
and it will forget.