I.

in this universe,

the lunar lip, taut on the crescent moon’s face,

commands the foaming tidal waves,

Do not ask me how this works; I am nowhere

near the ocean.

II.

At the end of the day,

the dusk’s brief gift is the lavender hue

bestowed upon the swaths of shore,

Do not ask me how this works; I am foreign

to grains that compose sand.

III.

in this written passage of time,

the mourning ritual of the moon involves repeating

the sun’s vernacular: a shine, a light—

Do not ask me how this works; I am only observing

this exchange of grief in our solar system.

IV.

At night,

The navy-hued evening does not apologize

for brushing its broad shoulders against the horizon,

Do not ask me how this works; I am only a victim of

lost time.

V.

in the final sentences that are spoken before dawn,

the hourglass weeps over the midnight sand that slips

between its time-keeping teeth,

Do not ask me why this happens; I am a shadow

that gets no space

for a final say.