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So it's the fucking moon. Big deal. As if
you haven't seen it before, tacked to the sky
like a piece of rotten meat, or a maudlin
love letter (the _i_'s dotted neatly with hearts)
on the sky's door like the ninety-eight theses.
Don't stare at it like it means anything.
Don't give it the chance to collect meaning
from your outstretched hand, like an old pigeon.
Don't dare ascribe it a will, or call it fickle,
or think it has any say in your affairs.
It's separated from you by three hundred and eighty
thousand miles of empty space,
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