Holy is the thingon its slow dance across the night,all chalk-faced and beaming,filling the bedroomwith its ancient light, and peakingthrough all the windows while I tossover and over and over in the shine,actually a little pissedat how not dark tonight's dark is.And normally I'd welcomethis bright peace,having spent many a small hour pressedagainst the window,and just last month jostled my wifeawake, shirtless and giddy,to watch the thing slip behind the earthand vanish, singingthat Bonnie Tyler song as she burrowedback beneath her pillows,slinging groans and slanderswhile the moon, too, tuck