If only I could escape the effects
of the moon. It is supposed to cycle and stay
hanging up there in the sky,
bringing the tides in and out,
some man made of cheese looking
down from way up high
having these powers over the earth
and my swooning, following me
in the car window as we drive home
in the dark, this hooked half circle
catching stars in its belly, and I’m
waiting to see it lower into my pocket,
low enough to follow some ruminant beast
in the field and jump over it
while the animal within howls as if this
will keep it locked up there in the dome
where it belongs, making wishes on tiny
morsels of flecked explosions
surrounding it, calling out to this
carnal need, this round object
that has no light of its own,
can only reflect the searing pain
of the sun’s burning, this
dispatcher’s delight when it is full,
a policeman’s curse as a round orb:
creating crazy as it glows full circle,
and me looking on to find it leaving
me, every 27 days, again and again and
again.
