The moon, the moon.

Tonight the moon was a fat white smear behind a heavy settling of cloud. Once I'd seen it, it took me a few minutes to realize that I was trying to turn it into lines of poetry. Instead, I'm going to leave it hanging here for a little while. That moon--if moon it even was--looked to me as though it had been made by a painter's whitened thumb. It was a soft and easy thing, its edges unfixed, its light beautifully fugitive. It hung, with its swipe of light turning all the cloud around it penumbral, over those angels on campus, and it laughed at their boundedness, their concrete anchors to the ground. And it has laughed me gently all the way home to bed, and to sleep.

source for tonight's image: Luigi Serafini's deeply weird Codex Seraphinianus, about which you can read here.