Driving the car, walking the dog . . .
cresting the hill. When suddenly
you catch sight of the day-moon, why
does it come with what is almost a jolt of pain?

You mean the pain inflicted by its beauty?
No, I mean the pain
caused by its having been up for hours,
and though you’d noticed, you had not seen.

Blaring at you from a sky
the blue of a fast car of a bygone day —
you have so far to go in your perceptual awakening
and the day-moon is the meter of your failings.

And if you’d seen, would you still feel
that soft and slightly sick spot in your stomach
whenever you stoop to self-reflection: now
you wouldn’t stoop, being perceptually awakened

though not boastful, no never boastful.

Meanwhile the day-moon circles the globe like Superman,
hauling the seas on his white shoulders
flying half a mile a second,
getting things done

but also as calm as the Virgin Mary.
See her face up there?
People used to say that it was made of cheese.
Such silent cheese. Such busy cheese.