II.
The moon should flay her own skin
Her leather is cracked, blistered, torn
Like an overridden saddle.
We push and push, but
She doesn’t budge
Her pieces adhere, but she isn’t one
She’s a line assembly of meats
A taxonomy of padded bones.
I’d hit her with a shovel,
But the bone is sponge
We’ll leave the moon be.
Bury her jig-saw pieces in the hole.
III.
The stages along life’s way
Confound the moon
It beats its copper kettle
All chipped and dinged
It holds out its upturned arms
Asking for alms
We give it a silver
And are returned a chipped tooth
The moon has no use for confessions
Its tears are arid flakes
It dangles by its rope of blue light
Trapped in a prism
The oceans are dragged by its chords
We are moon ready
I bend at the knee
The blue saturates the
Atoms, they smash
Under the weight of moon glow
Like top heavy towers
This is where we sit
The moon demons serve up their
Drinks, cold, blue, flat
Like a deep shaft of well water
It chills the teeth
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