The earth

turns to the moon as if

it was the one and only

satellite capable, tonight,

of attending to grievances we

heave at the could

-have-been in our sleep.

The moon used to sleep

with one eye open, mail coif

riveted to a skull that would

annihilate horror with only

a nod, riveted by the we

-stern winds of day and night,

all eyes riveted on it. Tonight

(and every other) the moon’s asleep

at the wheel. Fearful, we

give it an earful of sans-serif:

“Riveting? You’ve a face only

pareidolia could

love!” A lone rust-red cloud

-tail’s deformed by night’s

hammers like a rivet. The moon only

has eyes for itself, it needs no beauty sleep

now. It’s absorbed too much kif,

performed away from its krewe.

We call for it to overawe

us like creamy amber cloud

-berries. If only we could be sportif,

the moon our tennis ball tonight.

If only tonight we could sleep,

the moon overlook us as only

celestial bodies can. It’s only

a question of time before we,

chillingly extravagant, will sleep

still as Illinois’s mastodons. “Would

you like blood, moon?” Tonight

(and every other) it cold-shoulders this aperitif.

“Only you can slow us, sleep

-ing policeman in the night sky!” We

harden, no-good riveters, under the dark leitmotif.