My tinfoil moon is so cheap
and glitters prolifically,
unlike the gold sun jailed
in the center of the solar system,
mined to death for its light,
wasted resource above the
bickering buildings with their
fluorescent innards.
Perhaps my dearest half will tear just the
littlest piece of my moon
to fashion me a fashionable ring.
No one loves the crinkled moon as I do,
The glitz and glam of being second best.
I work to the tune of your aurora.
The floor wears away imperceptibly
as a woman whose dreams have
been munched by the wolf in her words.
The tundra of my inexperience thaws.
On the know-it-all breeze,
laughter that grips my heart
like a hand.
When the pollen heard you weep,
you were sainted by the grass.
Your greens, your purples.
Your lilting light that
whips through my space
like remorse.
Your song is dangerous,
damaging.
In the January flame everything
curls to the core to cure the cold.
The drool from your chin gleams
like seraphim.
When you became a hunting dog
in an incomparable cage,
I rose above the earth
like a nuclear cloud.
You’ve been hungry for so long,
my flowers asleep in their
bulbs dream of you as soil,
as a rain of blood.
Gnaw the chain link
and drop yourself as a wind
into the cold.
January burns like a wild
thing on the run.
Miniature Moon 