The Moon Could Never Love Me
I am tired of telling the moon of its beauty.
it is waiting for the kind of praise that only
someone foreign to this Earth could give it.
I paint my face the colors of the universe.
chartreuse, azure. kaleidoscopic black.
my dead grandfather would be proud:
he used to say that honesty is a willingness.
can you tell the moon when it is being ugly?
when it is the ugliest to me? the tide is
pulled in the direction of stardust but I am
a bit wretched these days. no, the moon
could never love me. it pushes me over
the edge of my bed. & I would never love
the moon back honest, honest to god.