A New Moon

I couldn’t sleep, and irrationally thought
that drifting off would come by picturing
the brightness of a mandala, a charm.
It came at once, the phantom sign: a new

moon disfiguring my lidded vision,
an antiimage rising from the deep—
though nothing deep itself. Nothing but
a shadow on the surface of an omen

out of time… Perverse, its hanging there—
in that it should present itself to one
who worships in the cult of truth & beauty
and looks to call their fruits to mind at will.

Yet in this sleepless night, what comes to me
in nanoseconds—there as though implanted—
is something neither true nor beautiful.
A new moon, yes: though not the waxing kind.