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”