Half

At twelve past six, by the tables, the moon was exactly half, the straight edge ruled down its middle whether anyone looked or not.

We could, for once. The cloud that sat on Prague since Saturday came apart toward evening, and there it was, cut clean

as the end of a loaf. Along that line it is just getting light on the moon, a sunrise so slow it takes a fortnight to cross.

Here it runs the other way. With nothing over us, the day goes out by the open roof, thirteen now, by morning under eight,

and I stand in the yard in the wrong jacket, letting it, because the warmth and I are looking the same way.