The moon isn’t looking for solutions.
She’s grown accustomed
to partialities,

that accretion
of absence, her black scarves
plucked from the top hat

one by one.
Then a miraculous
cumulus, removeless

Stoic mathematician,
efficient wizard,

reveal your secrets.
A lover
is going, some lover is always

going. Such curious
quadratics that
will not leave me whole.