The Moon is a Mountain

The moon is a mountain we’ll never
climb, at 4am it runs from us, on
a descending train bound for Atlantic
City, to a shadowed sunset clawing the
land like a glacial set of fingernails,
it runs, always ahead, always lumbering
like some gilded potato
(I often wonder how our grey
spacesuited men would react if,
cresting a ridge someday they came across
some antiquated lunar shack
constructed obviously by 18th
century men…but how did they
get here? everyone would ask,
and we’d never know),
but even the moon my dear
was never as bright as your face
below mine, and never as
detailed, and here now
as the swollen moon subsides
sleep leaves our eyes
you pull your dress on
and open the door to rain.