You,
with your gibbous form
not quite pulling at lakes,
rest at the edge of sunsets
to nibble on crisp tan leaves crinkled
at the base of trees.
You,
with your quarter-eclipse
not quite pushing at shadows,
stir at the hearts of sunrises
to sip on mud puddles pooled
in metropolitan potholes.
You
will not move me to hook
my fingers through the loops
of your not-quite thoughts.
I
am not quite interested
in “almost”