MOON

So many things follow us

like the moon, listening for our primal cries.

We stop, it stops,

while 30 miles ahead

bright moonlight floods the brain of a wild animal.

Grief rushes through its sorrows.

Now is the moment to shake the moon from our track,

yet like a dead friend’s soul

it slips into my 6 square meter room.

If I can’t plant my fingerprints on the moon,

who’s to say it exists?

The mad still dance in moonlight,

old women in alleys wrap their heads with flowered scarves,

and the blazing eyes of black cats mock only the gutless.

If you’ve something to say, say it loud

on a moonlit night—how many times,

on the dark path from the bar to the planetarium,

the drift of low voices, talk of revenge,

talk of eloping.

If you mean to dig a grave, dig quickly,

don’t wait till the moon splits your flesh,

knocks on the heatpipes under your ribs,

shifts the tinge of your blood,

makes you fall in love with that skeleton in the casket.

Life is a man strolling in moonlight,

pouring out his passion

on a tin whistle.

We stumble after,

a sudden laugh hissing through our lips.

Though the trailing moon

never blocks our steps, it vanishes

to let the darkness work,

then soon after death

appears beside our bodies,

silent, rising.