time on the moon

take a twig & jab it into the soil.
now you have a sundial. now,
in the glow of the moon, you have 
a way of knowing what part 
of the lunar afternoon it is.
on the moon, there is no such thing
as morning or night or even midday.
the moon creatures toss bones in the dirt
to ask when the day is over. once, a day lasted
several human lifetimes.
the moon beings wept & pleaded with the day.
they said let us go, please let us go
but the day just kept working. 
the moon-rocks grow beards 
near the end of a cycle. the moon dial
in your backyard should not be disturbed.
we should check it often. we are 
made of water after all 
& whatever the moon says we should do 
we will do. once, the moon told me
to swim to the bottom of a swimming pool
in the dead of winter. my skin prickled
with the cold & from beneath the water
i saw the moon peering in. 
we have assumed she is gentle & kind 
for too long. the truth is
the moon is just deeply curious, willing
to knock glasses of water off counters.
eager to let pots boil over. she has 
no way of taking notes so she 
tampers & tampers & tampers. once,
in a bowl of vegetable soup, 
i saw the reflection of the moon looming
over my shoulder. the moon was watching me
put lips to the hem of the bowl. the moon
is jealous of tongues. it wants one very bad.
the dial reads 4pm on the moon. up there 
the people are rejoicing. i can sometimes hear
their singing. they clutch moon rocks 
until the rocks turn to dust. they dream
of a great rain. they tell fairy tales of trees
& the color green on earth. one tells them 
to plunge a rod into the moon dust 
& try to read the time of day 
on earth. they discover my 8 pm 
all glossy & dripping & the moon people
they dream of having early nights. 
all the while, the moon beneath them 
shudders in the cold of itself.
i wave goodnight out the window.
my eyes become trap doors into a morning.
the moon: a vaulted ceiling.
a flashlight on a round face.