The moon is able to watch the living.
She can also see the dead. She knows
both sides. We stomp around on our
hard feet. The bloodless others float
in dark space, lighter than chips of paint.
From her in-between, panorama vantage point,
she is wiser than a poet. She counts our mistakes
and stores them, like silver coins, in her Lake
of Forgetfulness. She watches us undress,
every orgasm makes her Lake of Dreams
grow deeper. She is worn out by our foolishness.
As either punishment or prize, each month,
she sends us a beacon
of madness.