Whither
a destitute moon
cannot but produce lemonade
as regular as a wing. As the moon’s son
yet scours the offside sky
over the long white fence to dry
its eccentric orbit seems fractious
Though our supper fit with the
timescale
of the moonrise - I’m uncertain
this struggle is one of seeking
the safety of square numbers
In the never lands gravity brings
things
down into depressions to blur
each last time opening
like a striped umbrella in a
casual parade
lapses in the tide of all things
with a snootful of amazement
Fly me to the moon like a fiddler
over a lake that reflects
downscales
inevitably finding the least
common
where the buffalo wallow
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