The Moon

The Moon

After dinner, in a still backyard,
or park, alone, I will not talk,
my periphery will not be invaded
by the noisy heads of other men.

Strolling and quietly breathing,
I will go to the moon to stare at her.

She'll be round tonight.
Buxom and perfect.

I know what will happen. After a
few glances, I’ll sit on the ground,
my chest will nervously rise with
the incoming night, and I’ll recline,
Adam’s apple to the sky,
ready to receive her.

I hope she likes it when I stare at her.

The moon is shining on other men,
no doubt. This world is huge,
and the men are like ants.

But beneath the moon tonight,
I must hope that I am unique,
that my devotion and virgin
appetite are singular, that
other men do not feel her
illustriousness and severity to
the extent that I do. I must hope
that they are sheep and I
am wolfish, tearing at them
with my teeth.

The other men in her light look
at her; they take in her light- sloppy
men, ill prepared, underdressed,
looking at her, lacking proper restraint,
letting the light haphazardly fall.
They regard her as though she
were a sandwich, or a turtle.

They do not love the way that I love.
They are whores.