I walk down to the bay,
an after-dinner stroll in the darkness,
and there, on the invisible horizon,
is the red, lacquered bowl
of the quarter moon, just beginning
to sink into the Pacific,
not far from where I watched
the sun go down
only a few hours earlier.

So in one day I’ve seen 
the sun set and the moon set.
And though nothing is more predictable
than when and where the sun will vanish,
I couldn’t tell you anything
about the habits of the moon.

Some nights you see it up there—a ball
or a bowl or a thin white smile—
and some nights you don’t.

It’s a mystery
I want to talk to you about
after I walk back home
and climb into bed,
where I know you will be deep
in a novel as usual,
one side of your face
lit by the yellow reading lamp,
one side in shadow.

​