Day 343

Four in the morning in Gaza.
Early autumn moon, the same moon
over everywhere.  Those who remain
(in the tents that remain
pitched in the sand) lie wakeful, vigilant,
stare through the flaps in their tents
at the clear sky, moon lighting
their weary faces, their broken thoughts.
Just days ago the bombs made craters
in the sand, tents melted
from that heat, bodies
shattered, unrecognizable.
Just days ago the moon was climbing
over the sea, less of it visible
than now, its pleated light 
spilling over the water.  How clear
the sky is in this fleeting moment
without bombs, how strangely solacing
the vastness between stars,
the distances from our world.