the pull

this white
wafer
in the air,
unbitten and full.
waiting, watching.
being something it isn't
to help fulfill
our poetic attempts
at understanding love,
or us.
we feel it's presence,
the pull of tides,
of blood,
the incremental rise
of hope,
or despair.
we can hardly take
our eyes
off such a thing,
this full white moon
within the hand of a black
unspeaking sky.