Morning Setting Moons

If mirrors were liars, if neurons were cowards,

I’d not be so quick to escape with the dower

of that murky dream’s promise of weddings undone,

for momentary passing or for new returns.

But still there is lapsing, lacking a clearer purview

than those same memories catching, packing

a panicked, new you.

So I pack them up in morning setting moons,

cast them into the new Venus undone;

you’ll see them there, unfettered by love

since these centuries have passed,

these courses rerun.