Slow Moon

You stare through a telescope.
There, the craters,
and the old seas, like bruises.
You stare a bit longer.
You see the moon revolve,
inch by inch–
the slow moon tilting,
an avalanche off an edge
that is neither light
nor darkness.
A chill rises on your arms.
It’s not just the moon that’s moving.
It’s you, too,
face to face
and dancing the sunward spiral,
out, and out,
with purple dust in your wake.