The moon,

The fucking moon…

It’s there.

Oh, the moon, oh. There it is.

Whole and bright.

White bright disc,

With a magic pull – a powerful lust of sky,

It pulls me in,

But I am not resisting.

I have always been in league with the Moon.

I have been to the Moon.

Let me tell you:

There are rivers of white water,

Magnesium fire-flies burning under ripples of streams –

There are palm trees of silver

And women – oh the women – who sing as sirens,

Sweet sirens,

With song that is at once soul and orgasm –

This is the sound of the moon,

This is the sway of the moon,

This is its taste and scent.

I sat across from Alysia

And wondered

If her smile was as good to touch

As the moon.

We threw paper planes at each other

And I could not help but notice

The beauty that she wore so carelessly,

So absentmindedly,

The lunatic.

And the girl

Whose name meant Full Moon

Was a picture all right.

I give her to you now:

You hold her in your hands,

And she is like the man, the woman,

That you held who made you fall in love.

Her thin waist and dark Indian skin and sweet scent

And soft breast and hard nipple

Is all that makes you fall in love

The way you fell in love that time

So deep, so far…

You look into her young eyes and gulp.

You lie beside her at night

And bury your nose in her hair of soft silk.

You weep beside her at night as the Moon pours through the windows,

Because you know she is a phenomenon of light,

Because you know she is an accidental perfection,

Because you do not believe in love or beauty or perfection,

And yet, here she is.

Because she reminds you of that man you dreamed of as a young girl,

That girl you half imagined as a young boy.

Because the Moon is so unreal, so imagined, so overwhelming in its beauty,

And yet,

Look up.

The moon,

The fucking moon,

It’s there.