The misted moon as variety of black and white TV—
backdrop, desk and headshot
of nightly news in the 60s –
stern, nervy, full of filament
unfed, unfulfilled
it speaks, never clearly, across light years
inkling of a vaster meaning
than petty characters preening
it pleads our plight
conveys only questions:
Is it real snow? Is un-
certainty only certain?
(It’s hard to hear
when someone in the back room
is popping bubbles)