Every so often, a double moon
surfaces on a shore of clouds
encircling my home.
However ample the evidence,
whatever statistics
scientists have accumulated,
I resolve that we have not a solitary
moon, but two.

So all this time, I stand,
viewing my reflection in puddles
during thundershowers,
feeling dissolved, longing to coagulate
before some animal drinks out of me --
last month, I ran after a child,
who appeared to have been myself
as a child, following him down
the important street names of my past

before cornering him against
the building of my old grammar school,
only to discover that the poets
were right: everyday, reasoning,
trying to verify, you never grasp it,
staring at a mirage so unceasingly real,
though having long convinced
yourself it was not.