i wanted to write a poem
about the moon
before it got too fat
and fell all silvery from the sky

but i am god
and being
god is hard work

i left the words
in favor of grace
and hope and other (even sillier) things
(like love)

the moon, she falls
again tonight
like a crust of bread
or an angel

i ask creation for a moment
— it is so difficult
to be responsible
for everything right
(and wrong)

an empty book
remembers what I’d have written
and leaves me
holier than though
(laughing at myself — and of course
my own benediction)