Manifesto (my laptop attempts a poem on its own)

We always write about the moon.

Why shouldn't we when it rises,

like a big orange Caesar -

hailed by the armies of bare

trees under winter's blush.

We always write about the moon,

her smooth yellow arc across

darkening amaranthine.

I always want to tear the cover off,

pry it open with a blunt screwdriver;

peer inside to the clockwork

and the fulcrum that balances pain on sting.

I need to know what is red about red,

what is wet about ocean,

and what is blood about sky.

We always write about the moon

because she has seen everything.