by Sean Garcia  /  poetry  /  24 Jul 2007
I can't pick out the stars the way I used to,
Gleaming bright as pennies in a wishpond
In broad daylight. Dim ones then were still
There; now they've all dissolved into the cloud
Cover that drifts and dissipates, almost at random.
Left behind are shiny spots blurred beyond
Recognition, like shapes in a dream like
Last night dangling sideways from the sky
I saw a yellow thumbnail.
Could have been the moon. Approximately.
Might have been last month; I'm not sure.
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