The Moon

The Moon

First, the moon's dress drifted
Onto the blue boards of my front porch.
Then the moon's body dropped
from the night sky,
Spread out among the geraniums and ferns.
The moon resembled Botticelli's Venus
As revised by Titian. I was glad
That Tineretto was not around
To put sores on her legs
and destroy the apparition.
I wondered what to do.
Should I keep my door locked,
As I have done most of my life,
Being trained by Kant and Kierkegaard.
Or should I tear the door off its hinges.
I looked again, as I peeped through
The blinds on the door at the moon's body.
I took a crowbar, tore off the hinges.
The moon stood up, rushed in.
The moon left at dawn.
Happily, I felt my wasted life was redeemed,
I went outside, repaired the door,
And looked at the number on my house,
And saw I had a new address.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Sugar Mule