At some point I walked outside. It felt cool.
The moon’s curved spine was broken
on the ridge. A kind of giving up.
I watched the cup sink, till its rims
were two hooked horns, turned nearly in
on themselves, poised to gore. They too
disappeared. The night was dark without its glow,
however dim. Soon the stars came forth.
They’d always been there. And now
I could discern the needle-point of each.

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