Every time I see something cool
and point it out to someone

it sneaks behind a building,
shrinks itself, camera-shy

So I will capture it here—
the perfect crescent of the first

clipped nail stained orange
from peeling tangerines

while we watched TV again,
held each other again, having not

gone outside we wonder
what the moon looks like today

but don't bother peeking out the blinds
because it's always the same

Instead I tell you about a childhood song
about the night sky—how my face is round and big

like the moon but the only Korean word
I can remember is the word for egg,

for daughter, 달걀 and 딸,
when the word is so simple

I forgot about it entirely and instead
think door, which is 문, which yes,

sounds like moon, and I finally whisper
to you 달, and there it is, there's the 달.