the large moon waits hidden ringed
in thin clouds bright as wishing
itself the sun, full hung gorged in
a reflection of fire not its own
that blots out all but the brightest
points in a multitude that must be

in weather beyond this shell of air
objects shoot down hard and fast to earth
while the dog rummages, seeking outside
bushes sniffing licks of ooo yum yum
my neck strains looking backward and up 

averting from that fat moon glaring
so bright constellations washed out to
a hazy gray from that not moon's light
and what point might twinkle through
is blocked by artificial orange glowing
in giant domes thrown up by streets

I have come now to think that quaint
nature is no longer a question that possibility
might find with the light of television
holding in what small chance might escape

just the din of things that cause this
to be understood working to keep
an elevation to the practically real
where stars no longer can be seen