Tonight the Moon comes walking down the middle of the street dropping her clothes.
Within the city, small men rail against the things they cannot do.
She blows them kisses;
they do not notice
or reflect on her milky promise.
Her clothes float down around them like notes from a forgotten song:
a lullaby of childhood lost,
a hymn of piety unclaimed,
a love song that makes tatters of the night.
To a man, their ears are tin
and their voices clang like hungry pots,
empty even in the embrace of words.
Tonight the moon comes walking down the middle of the street dropping her clothes.
Even in her fullness the small men find no solace in her naked joy,
and they rail against the things they cannot be
or believe.
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