Moon came to an old Cheshire mere,
In all her shadowy finery.
This boy cannot stop looking
And looking and looking at pretty Missy Moon.
Thunder growls on this high summer eve,
Missy Moon shows off her talents,
Her rounded suppleness of form
Shows us all her shades and shadows and crevices.
Toing-and-froing the moon swings like an old nursery rhyme
Moonlight flows and flows and the young boy is now an old man
Sleeping in a hammock made of shades and tears.
In her gypsy skirt Missy Moon bends and rises,
Kisses him lost and white in his heart of hearts
And is so-fully herself that this old man falls in love with her, again
Shadows stand around Missy Moon in silent awe
At this silent roaring on the other-side-of-silence
Where this boy wants to hold her close
To dance her to a full-stop on the glassy surface of the lake
But Miss Moon has forgotten how to dance
And, besides, it is far too late
The boy became a man became a corpse, of course.
And she cries and she whimpers and she hides her eyes
For her shadows will fade, this side of the mountain,
This side of the grave.
Now, she flirts with the Earth
On inauspicious nights and upon translucent nights
When she imagines the boy skips and throws himself
In and out of her shadow.
In the lake we see
Chasing the moon to the water-side:
He sought her in the water
And he sought her in the air
He sought Pretty Missy Moon everyfuckingwhere:
Chase, grasp, desire, touch:
Dying in the moon’s silvery touch.
Too rich or too much?
This image of the fulsome moon
On windy nights and when at-swoon,
Leaves me with this blood-taste
Shimmering inside of me. Of late.