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
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.