If you focus on the moon when it’s full and surrounded by soiled clouds at night, and I mean become really fixated, it looks like the single, illuminated overhead speck that patients see coming out of comas, the surgeon’s headlamp that makes eye contact way before a patient discerns the doc’s dull pupils. And no matter how opaque the cloud that passes over it, the moon consistently remains radiant, penetrating, a peephole in the dark sky to some brilliant, light world unknown or indiscernible to a chained-at-the-stake man of gravity. Or maybe the white spot is simply false hope in the form of a flaw in our universe, an incongruity, like a mole or a freckle on the face of the atmosphere. But goddamn if everything around it doesn’t become distortedly beautiful for a mistake. Blood in water can only aspire to mimic the slow, spectral buoyancy of clouds floating past the moon. And we are all sharks — hungry, mouths agape, launching greedily up toward it in vessels of longing.