The moon fell into my teacupwhile I was looking away.I found it there beside the mint,a little chipped by the porcelain rim,making silver of the ordinary.

I lifted it with both hands.

It nudged a mint leaf out of its wayas though it owned the cup.

Somewhere, someone was closing a shop.Someone was turning a key.The world went on with its eveningwhile the moon sat down with me.

I told it all the beautiful thingsI used to mean to do—learn the names of garden birds,paint a kitchen blue.

The moon said, “Which blue?”I said, “I haven’t decided.”It slid a little farther down the cup.“Well,” it said,“I have all night.”

“Won’t somebody miss you?” I asked.It drew the mint leaf over its knees.“Probably,” it said,and made no move to leave.

I began to see the kitchen:a yellow bowl beside the sink,sunlight reaching past the curtains,a little bird I’d learn to name.

“You could visit,” I told it.

It glanced around the teacup.“I thought I was.”

The tea grew cold.I let it.

Then I found a scrap of paperand wrote downblue.