Blink

On the hoods of old cars
with metal freezing skin
and wipers digging into backs,
we stare at a glittering face,
stretched from horizon to horizon,
staring right back.

With tears streaming
in meteor tails
in invisible wrinkles
and inevitable creases.
And with glass sending
shivers through tepid flesh,
creaking humid bones
in balmy summer air,
we sit on the reflection
of a dark and pitted face,
Wishing on each lamentation.

While the moon is a blink
struggling to stay shut,
each month, relieved once,
before pried open once again.
Muscles pull against
shadows and orbits,
like a prisoner of war,
strapped to a table,
head bolted down,
Copernicus' discovery a clamp
against a vacation.

We sigh and we say
"We pity you Moon, for all you must see;
for the vigilant watch you've held."

We sign and resume counting
the streaks in the dark face,
not bothering to hear the Moon's reply,
"I pity you for the same reasons."