Unheralded, the gibbous moon
arrives too late, if not too soon,
a goblet neither full nor empty,
off balance there, like Humpty Dumpty
or one of us, afraid of falling,
having missed a stair or calling,
lopped mushroom cap, a thing diminished,
or handwork set aside unfinished,
a doily of discolored lace
moth-eaten in an attic space,
age-spotted face obscurely seen
peering through a storm door screen,
ragged moon in a ragged cloud,
Lazarus risen, trailing his shroud,
a powdered thumbprint on the sky
that blurs the stars we travel by,
thin wafer vagrant souls are fed,
wholly insufficient bread
we bless and break, and multiply.

This article appears in October 2024.

Alfred Nicol’s books include Animal Psalms and Brief Accident of Light, a collaboration with Rhina Espaillat. His poems have appeared in Poetry, The New England Review, Dark Horse, Commonweal and The Best American Poetry 2018.