If the Moon Fell

by Steve Trenam

If the moon fell,
what good would it be
just floating a bit offshore,
its unrelenting brightness,
no longer distant,
the entire city sleepless.

Waxing, waning missing,
ashamed of its pock-marked
complexion and lack of
gravitational pull—tides gone,
the shoreline now tiresome
save for the moon’s
slightly bobbing presence,
its luminosity no longer having
anything to do with the sun.

Perpetually full, but never
again filled with romantic
notions. The sky is darker,
shadows are deeper,
and sanitation workers
are chipping away to remove
it from the landscape.

Still, I’d like to have seen
the splash.