—for Rico
Our moon’s a prime
example of less-is-
more. Its slivered,
crescent shine. Its mountains
on the brim of light and
dark. Risen like a curve
of chiselled braille.
Like a face that’s
glimpsed in profile,
never looking you
in the eye. Its mix of
smooth and scar
that’s nearly hidden.
A veil in silhouette.
A broad, funereal
umbra. Mourning
yet another
cataclysm—maybe
our existence.
If I could only
read its message
then I’d share it with
the earth. My telescope
the perfect go-between.
As it was for Galileo.
Its sibilance
in his ear that we are
specks along the edge,
as far away from centre
you could get. That it’s only
with our eyes shut
we can see. Why the blind will
know its language. Its sickle
in the stars. Singing we are
triflings to be threshed.
Its notes on a single
staff. Not crescendo
but a piece by
Debussy : serene,
misleadingly uplifting ,
which I never learned to
play
when I had the
chance, so caught
up in the sky
while just a boy,
its shadows and its gleam,
its trembling , bleeding
voices in the night.
Andreas Gripp
March 18, 2025
RF Image of Claude Debussy
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