Alright, of course: the moon.
Orange, large, over the houses and the trees, made of rocks, and cheese.
We go on.  Tell stories.  Because of course. The moon. Above.
The moon, of course, is
dare I go on.
The fucking audacity.
The moon's alright without us.
So. Stretching. Tired. Awake.
Avoiding sleep.  The moon remains.
On deathbeds, all around the world
the moon observes.
We say: "how beautiful."
Of course we do.  We say we're blue. We say death comes to trees and houses, orange hospitals.
Love comes under the moon,
sweaty and knowing, or secret and pining.
We can't escape it. Most of us don't bother trying. I try reading, but my fingers cross the page
and hide the text. Eclipsing it.
Crickets, outside singing. Being eaten. Eating. In the snow they're silent.
The snow, of course, is white, and pure.
The moon is cold.
These words make fun, but even in passion, yearning for the words that make moons,
am I embarrassed at my inadequacy. Or glad to reflect her.
Pale ghost of a pale ghost,
I'll sing. Like a cricket.
Call my mate.
Summer's closing, and I haven't once been lower than
the grass.