Looking up, there was less of a moon, cut
from a circle, the pattern out-lighting a sky
I walked the backyard to see. Nothing much there,
everything in place: perfect. More than a trellis,
more than a rectangular once-garden, now filled
in millet or seed-less, as less is: more.
The garbage can lid flips open
surprising less for a change,
looking up to feel how it is
when something stops
like less becoming.
More, the light outlines
of a thin, surface line,
of less, less, slipping away,
reaching out to Apollo,
Dionysus, as less fills itself.
We live for the palm of less,
a moon placed into hands,
kept in its wrapping, handy
as an angel, a release, a moan.