I.
One moon fits in a teacup
if the room is dark enough.
It trembles when the kettle sings,
a silver coin the water keeps
but never spends.
II.
One moon waits in the elevator
between the sixth and seventh floors.
No button calls it.
No camera sees it.
Still, every night at 2:04,
the doors open onto white light
and close before anyone decides.
III.
The last moon is pocket-sized,
warm as a stone from summer pavement.
Carry it home.
Forget it in a coat.
Months later, when winter finds the hallway,
reach into the dark
and remember you once kept
an impossible thing
without needing to own it forever.