by Catherine Hamrick

He painted promises,
the ever turn of earth
shimmering on an oak panel:
emerald and terracotta
floating on marine blue swathed
in swirls, with night edging
out day and cities winking
like electric constellations.

He wrote love songs
to the shape-shifter moon:
a disk in shadow,
an ashen diadem,
an ochre quarter,
a creamy globe,
a low-hung lamp
over ripe fields.

He handed me both worlds,
like borosilicate marbles,
but I lost them to what is:
with no breeze, no rain
to salve meteor pocks,
the moon hangs,
a frigid nightlight
pulling at earth;
waters bulge and crash,
while earth fixates
on arid basins,
raising crusty tides.