I cannot feel the moon on my skin here in this emptiness, in this field of crushed styrofoam cups. The afternoon's hazy freedoms and the sensibilities of the toddlers with their toys is a light quaintness in the pocket of my coat. Not the outer pocket, but the inside pocket, with the zipper, with the fabric care label, with the memories of how proud and envious I was as a boy, as a teenager, as a man.
I carry my water in a fist-sized bottle, once home to a traveller's portion of shampoo. I do not travel, and I have no need of cleanliness about my scalp. The water will do well for me, and the thought of its eventual weight on my tongue and the miracle of ingested liquid brings me a sort of resolve. The absent touch of this moon in this sky with its blackness and manifold retinas and the whispers of their fires, it remains. The absent touch of this moon is something I can abide.
