Today, we’re awash again, and the moon is one day short

of a quarter. From the train, I can see the moon drop

his lunch on the intersection. Ride low, dear moon, like

all those tire tracks through salad greens. The driver says,

from her sun-spot, go home moon, go home, go back

to bed. Today is just not his day, she says the moon, today,

rides low, on a bike with a loose-looking chain, and a bag

that won’t quite close—all his glass containers

shattered in traffic like so many



BROOKE SCHIFANO is a poet, currently working on her MFA at UMASS Boston. She lives in a small house with her cat and her person.