I hung the moon on a nail
In my kitchen, a blank space
Of sky or wall or whatever
You believe the horizon to be—

Most people believe it’s something.
I believed there was a nail there
And the painting concurred, strung
Soon and perfectly too high,

Much like the moon often is.
My algorithm insists I love Clair
De Lune, and I agree—Debussy’s
Sighing notes sleepwalking

Through the bluetooth speakers
You know the ones I mean,
The familiar sound the moon makes
As it rises through the window,

Over the rooftops, beyond the gauze
Of clouds before settling, on a wire,
On a nail, in a kitchen, dripping
Eternity against eggshell emptiness.