Out of Office

You can’t hear it

when the moon’s

limb passes through

the Earth’s shadow.

It doesn’t tell you

what it’s going to do.

It doesn’t warn you

that your eyes will

seem to play tricks,

and this lunar eclipse,

this blood moon

is a paper collage.

Nighttime scissors

snip a sliver of

wax paper,

big enough to

cover one eye,

big enough to

reveal change

you didn’t know

was folded into a leaf

or a ballot, ink stained

with tomorrow’s bodily

laws writing themselves

across the sky.

It’s as if God himself

held the moon in his mouth,

tricking you into believing

you could repair all of this.