Unknowable* Familiar* Tomorrow

Ariosto holds that in the fickle moon
dwell dreams that slither through our fingers here
all time that’s lost, all things that might have been,
or might not have- no difference, it would appear

The moon....bot unknowable and familiar

My darling fails. How can I continue to thrust vain images in that pure face?
The moon, both unknowable and familiar,
disdains my claims to literary grace
The moon I know of the letters of its name
were created as a puzzle or a pun
for the human need to underscore in writing
our untold strangenesses, many or one.

Include it then with symbols that fate or chance
bestow on humankind against the day-
sublimely glorious or plain agonic-
when at last we write its name the one true way

....and goodbye’s only meant until tomorrow