Spring grown older, the child’s bedtime now falls
before the fields begin to steam like horses
in the cool, before schools of moths wash upon
the house’s shore, pulled by waves of porchlight.
From his window he can see, sulking
behind the sun, the young moon as it slips
beneath the treeline with a final sweep
of its cold arm: the curved edge of a glacier
retreating to some forgotten pole
from which it once had grown to fullness —
a day, a month, ten thousand years ago,
grinding the sky before it to moth wing dust.
by Kevin Casey