The moon fell into my coffee
splashing dribbles down the sides.

Why was she out so late? I thought
as it was well past sunrise.

Sitting in the kitchen window
I stirred her into my tea

(celestials have a habit of changing
one thing to another).

Green paled to jade, woolly sage,
pastel olive crater-flecked.

I stood and sipped her, tasted midnights
and dawns, delayed twilight

cold, reflected light
just wishing to hang on.

She doesn’t float, but sinks
dissolving into dairy foam

—not gritty, not unpleasant at all—
I think, there’s no way I could’ve hoped to make anything

as precious
as this.