THE ASTRONOMER'S APOLOGY
Sorry for the sound of my steps
on the floor—wherever I
walked, it creaked. There was a new
moon above and I swallowed the dark
(it still comes out now as I speak).
Sorry, too, for the door, I didn't quite close;
the cold pulled you out of your sleep.
It's what the new moon does: it
deals out the stars; it dances, it drinks
and it cheats. All day long,
the planet revolved; it turned in
the troposphere's keep. With new moon
above, I swept through the dark. Then
I swept the dark off my feet. Still
I'm sorry, this morning, when
I came back to bed, if my hands had lost
all their heat. It’s an old tune, love,
what you lose in the dark,
what follows you back to the sheets.
From Open Air Bindery (2011) by David Hickey.