N’ode to the moon (From February 2007)


Crescent-gnawed of goddess’ fingertip, spit into the sky.

No horn of plenty, no homage to Semele.

No enigma, so familiar.

No competition for the multitude of black holes pulsing

Or galaxies whirling.

Parallax Error.  Quit following me, you lunar terror.

I wish I had the power shoot you out of your heavenly sling.

I refuse to identify with your pull of tides, water breaks and nocturnal rites.

Meses.  Menses.  Here’s a joke: What bleeds and bleeds but never dies?



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