What is it about the moon?
I jumped into it.
I drink from his light – yes his
round eyes
like John Lennon’s glasses.
The cups of glowing moon milk –
Moon,
ah you Luna-tic
I came from her – yes her
dry
grey
dust
who keeps hold of footprints.
No windstorms,
no moon prints
on that great Rock
we cannot call earth,
though she came from the Earth –
a broken piece I hold onto
with a string of light.
My balance
my moonrise
and set
when I knew nothing else,
when I was lost
mom said, watch the clouds.
I’m still watching
until the moon erupts.
Luna –
I never mind
being called crazy.
They don’t know,
they aren’t moon worshipers –
they can’t see
how the moon is drowned
even inside the ocean,
how the moon,
a dusty rock glows
by a string
from the core beneath,
waves and ticks
like an egg clock in my center.
How every man’s dust
comes alive by moonlight,
bouncing from their own sun.
The lunatics know.
We are so close
we walk up to her in the night
as she falls in
and swallows our view.
I do not love you
except because I love you.
Your crescent vessel
holding all of yourself,
your face turning
gently,
slowly,
toward me
and away –
toward me
and away.
