Here it comes again.
Soft, bay-shaped moon
gravitating along our coast
of whale-filled waters.

Transformations arrive
with such periodicity,
a sort of revolving door
in a fashion shop.

Over me she struts
as if her ancient body
is made new behind
curtained clouds.

What I might become,
given the influence of
her feeble light
on my eager skin.

Each cycle, her
ancestors phase
into my view. Oh,
this won’t quit!

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