Why The Moon Wants Us

The Poet’s head should be vehemently removed from
the body’s stalwart support, placed in the earth, and forgotten.
This is what the moon wants.
It cares to descend and take over the cephalic void.
This way it will be closer to the inner tides in the Poet and
the ocean’s song.

The moon has always wanted the sweetest tides and sweetest subliminal
honeysuckle, the twilight peregrinations of shadows and sounds, the music
of lambent nights.
The moon has always wanted The Lovers (naked flesh wrapped around the
reality of lust makes a good home its pale light).
It wants the last kiss, and the first dream.
It wants the rage of the werewolf (mouth foaming and hair bristling), and
the peace adrift in the meadow.

Once the Poet’s head has been cleaved off, the moon will
pack its bags.
And then the plummet towards the one with a cache of words
and no money.
Initially, the moon will look awkward atop
the body of the wordsmith.
There will be the problem of space.
How will the rock-behemoth get down streets?
There will also be the problem of stifled intimacy.
How will the Poet make love with an orb tenuously attached
to his bulky frame?

The moon has always wanted to be in close proximity
to the tides within.
The moon has always wanted the nocturnal and the nocturne.
The moon has always wanted simply this: communion.