You think that you know the moon,
its array of shapes, its sizes in proximity
to the horizon. But tonight,
the clouds mold it with sweeping hands
to show you a finch’s gold feather
falling, belly-heavy to the ground.

The clouds show you a paisley,
show you a neon tadpole, show you
the horizontal light of a cell phone
in silent mode. The clouds turn it
off and go to bed.

While you sit in the airport parking lot
waiting for your husband to descend
like a meteor, the detritus of daily
tedium burning off him. You can picture
the hot grey stone of his body
in your hand.

Once, your engagement ring hemorrhaged
a diamond. No money to replace it,
you put the ring in a drawer,
and then it was gone. The corona
of the moon replaced it.

The burning lips of backlights kiss
a path down the airport arrival lane.
When your husband flings open
the door, the car drapes you
in yellow temporarily.