The moon is sick. I fear she'll die
from lack of love, from poverty
and homelessness, lost in the sky,
our daughter dropping down the sea
of negligence. And who will glow
on walkers in the night? The moon
will glow and nobody will know
although her name and white balloon
will look the same. But she'll be gone.
Scholars will say, "She went. She was
an obscure custom of a race
of fools." The moon is sick, and on
the crackled face, a pox, a buzz
of priests are nailing her in place.