Let's say the moon can't see the tongues
of lovers licking each other's neck
as they lean against a fence by a silo.
Let's say the moon is blind. Of course it is.
It's not human, even though it affects tides.
Let's say tether of light, tether of gravity.
Let's say the moon isn't kind. Of course, it isn't;
see line five. It enforces its own curfew,
and the different hats it wears are, more or less,
shadows. How much of the moon can you
stomach? Victim or cruel one in songs,
the moon rolls on. Let's say bald doll, where age
is no factor.  Let's say ice along the road, and scorched
shingles on an abandoned farm house the moon
lights up. Let's say I find the diary of a girl
named Diane in a dresser drawer. A poem
every few pages, a moon in nearly every poem.
And I'll say this: the word love
stands in every corner,
naked, or floats above the bed —
the moon over its shoulder.