Clair de Lune

—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