What About the Moon?

I looked up and saw the full moon tonight and remembered this poem from the archives:

Postcard Written at Montrose Harbor

If God exists then God loves the crows; they gather like soldiers

around the flooded portions of the municipal golf course; and if

there’s a God, then God loves the black water

and the worms therein; and God might love the sweet

high notes on the violin, and the man, his violin case

a mouth and hungry on the sidewalk—although

I only allow for a God who loves what I love,

God loves the night because I love night, and the crows,

and the glint of dark water, my God loves broken voices,

an old woman sings a childhood hymn while she fishes for carp

in Montrose Harbor—rats in the garbage, I can imagine

a God who loves rats, for their tunneling, their stewardship:

sticks, refuse, crusts, a fierce attachment to the scraps

of the world—One might love an ash tree’s yellow leaves,

how they pave the sidewalk just after a storm, one might love

birds, or blood, screams, or explosions. God

loves the darkness, because

what about the moon?