I will not curse you, bitch Moon.
But neither will I increase
nor decrease for you.
I have already dulled your chill
corolla of mystery,
profound in drowning darkness.
Ah, youth.
For you, bitch Moon,
are only doing what roosters do, and I
am only doing what poets do.
What do poets do, bitch Moon?
Good question.
I say: they let flesh fall
from bones.
For you, bitch Moon, even Pluto's
turgid chariot
and his harridan of spatial affinity
are merely novices of grass,
sitting passive beside
your wry timelessness.
Are there really only three ways
to wear the new tunic?
To split all things known to eternity
into two?
Yes.
Alas.
How well you knew.
And how well I know that these needs descend
the trail of scent which begins with a starling's
indivisible luminous threads
and ends with all things connected
in their liturgy.
For here you are, Moon,
abiding in blood
in basic goodness,
and old photos of game show contestants
contentedly eating pussy.
Yes, you say, there is always pussy.
There is always already pussy:
and with this acceptance, subtle shifts
soon occur,
and I finally stop mistaking
background for foreground,
the alpha pure for
Alpha-Bits,
British physical comedy
for dark energy.
And what remains
after every possible negation
is neglecting.
And sweating.
Always sweating
next to some seemingly limitlessly
glistening chick
with freckles.
And so, weird, muddy,
mauve-y moon,
walk right in.
Sit your timelessness
beside me.
I am ready to embrace
these weaknesses
in my relationship to the Midwest,
these strategies
of sic transit.
Didn't the Magna Carta begin its life
as a calf?
Possibly a lamb?
And isn't it, after all,
the dinosaur
that lends us its
surprising depth?
