11/12ths full

A moth
lost in the blindness
of day, stays so still
on this morning's mirror.

Next door, they've dug the earth
out in grave-sized scoops
and will fill it back with concrete.

Four people will laugh there.

Last night, from the open train window,
the moon in a tree
almost 11/12ths full.

Yesterday, opening my mailbox door,
a poem about the papery redness of
California azaleas.

I watched the rest of the emptiness
pour out from you,
refusing to reach down
with cupped hands.