That dawdling moon--
that grisly shoe, that gravy boat--
so worthless, stuck there in the trees,
so poignant, a cradle carved from bone.
Just who does it think it is
that we should walk on eggshells
because it is suspended in fog?
The stupid moon drawls on and on
while we have jobs and
stop at traffic lights and
sometimes are killed due to our shoes or phones.
Who is it to watch our lovers,
who is it to make coyotes go crazy,
who is it to rhyme so much with spoon and June?
The whole deal frustrates--
that spinning slab, that cracked sphere--
so haughty, muzzling the stars,
so pale, an almond bit and skinned.
We strive and fail and die
lonesome and ignored
in these droves and crowds
while the stupid moon just hovers above
us and everyone looks.
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